


Nuances of Relationships

by kleighanna



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/kleighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can feel it now, heated, deep, dark... need and want, happiness and joy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reality of Fantasy

Kensi isn't usually one to fantasize.

She's a beautiful thirty-something that can be anybody she chooses. She doesn't need the stimulation when someone else can take care of it for her. Not that she's a slut she just knows where she can go when she needs to scratch and itch and, more importantly, how to go about it. So she's a little shocked when she knows she's reached a boiling point and instead of heading out to find a warm body, she's actually thinking of someone she seriously can't have.

It's the smirk and she knows it. They've been working together for a million years, exaggeration aside, and it's only last week that the smirk sent tingles racing down her spine. And it's the smirk in her mind's eye now.

The hacienda is really huge and not every corner is covered with security cameras so not even the all-seeing eye of Uncle Sam is watching her as she slips into a small room that could have been a storage closet. It's empty now, used for nothing unless it's needed for something, so it affords her a privacy she's not sure is possible anywhere else.

In her mind's eye, however, he's watching. Callen is, and he's wearing that smirk that tells her he knows exactly what she's thinking. Still, he keeps his distance, teasing her because he won't step closer. But she has two perfectly functioning hands and she knows her body.

She lets her left hand linger just above the edge of her jeans. She can feel the tingle already, the need for pressure for friction for anything. He steps closer as her fingers open her belt, button and fly, sliding her hand between the denim and satin of her panties. Her fingers find her slick skin with ease – not every guy she takes to bed considers her and it's not the first time she's had to take the pleasure into her own hands – and she rubs in a slow circle. Her other hand reaches up for a breast, sliding her fingers across a nipple as it pebbles.

He's still just watching and she finds herself wondering, if only for a split second, if Callen likes to watch. But then she's sliding a hand beneath her panties and her eyes flutter closed as she touches herself. She can feel him there, feels a shift in the air as he steps closer, but the heat is spreading now, and she knows her face is flushing and it feels too damned good for her to care where Callen is.

She works herself quickly, trying to keep herself quiet because while the all-seeing eye isn't there, there's the distinct possibility that someone could be walking by the door. He's still watching her, still paying attention and she shifts against her own fingers, using her free hand to nudge her jeans down until she has enough space to spear two fingers into her body. She hums at the feeling and the air shifts around her again. His hands are on her waist and his mouth is on her neck but she keeps her eyes resolutely shut until he sucks on her neck and sends her careening over the edge of orgasm.

She gets the shock of a lifetime when her eyes flutter open.

Callen's mouth is still on her neck, his hands now slipping beneath her shirt to touch heated, aroused skin. Somewhere along the way, her fantasy became a reality and she's stunned still in a mixture of arousal and shock. He takes advantage of her surprise to slide her shirt over her head and reveal a bra impractical for a day in the office. Of course, the impracticality is what's drawn her to it and the only piece of her brain aware of what's going on files his reaction away for later.

His mouth trails up her neck until he's hovering above her mouth. "Kens," he breathes and fuck it because she actually whimpers. "Kensi."

His hand slides down her hip, across to the hand still nestled inside her body. He tugs on her wrist until she pulls her hand from beneath her panties and he's got it in his mouth before she can even breath. Breathing's overrated though because it takes away from the experience of Callen licking her juices off her hand. She moans this time and he takes a moment to cover her mouth with his, a gentle reminder that she can't make a sound.

But it's her freaking fantasy come to life, of course she wants to make good use of it.

She'll regret it tomorrow. Today, she just wants him.

He knows it, senses it, whatever, because his kiss turns dark with longing and need. She responds, arching and fisting her wet hand in the edge of his t-shirt. It's over his head by the time his mouth returns to hers and she presses against his body. It gives him the space to unclasp her bra and it falls unceremoniously with his shirt. She doesn't give a rat's ass though because she's already focused on her nipples against his chest, even as he chuckles at the desperate friction.

"Kensi," he breathes again, this time against her shoulder. She whines as he tongues her collarbone on his way to her breasts and wiggles her jeans to her knees by the time he hits the soft globes. She's glad she's made it that far because thought scatters as he wraps his mouth around her nipple. Her hands come to his head, feeling the edges of the short strands as a contrasting roughness on her palms. He tongues and bites and has her squirming and biting her lip to keep her sounds to herself all before he switches to her other breast. Only then does he retrace the path of her hand to her wetness, sliding a finger against her sensitive nerves on it's way to her entrance.

She's hot and slick and whimpers when he pulls away too quickly. Then he's kissing her, his tongue in her mouth, fighting hers despite the languid feeling of one orgasm colliding catastrophically with the arousal he's caused. He guides her hands to his pants and she realizes dimly it's as much a question of permission as a reminder to participate. This is his way of giving her a choice, a way out and she's not an idiot so she deals with the fastenings so she can shove them down his legs. He makes her pause long enough to fight a condom out of his wallet before he's against her again, the hard heat of his cock pressed against her stomach.

He wrestles the condom into her hand and she rips it open with skill of practice. He outright freaking growls at the implication, his blue eyes blazing when they meet hers. Well hell, she thinks, if she'd known Callen was an option for scratching that itch she may have taken him up ages ago on convenience alone. It doesn't matter though because her focus is on sliding the condom along his length so he can raise her leg and push inside her. And when she does it's an explosion of colour.

He pauses and pants against her shoulder that she's fucking beautiful and she just moans and shifts, her leg wrapping more firmly along the back of his knee. She doesn't need pretty words so long as he moves and when he does he takes the air in her lungs with him. He pulls all the way out and teases her until she's whining before sliding back in again, setting a delicious pressure with the responding thrusts of her hips. He's got one hand on her thigh, the other on her hip and his forehead resting against hers. His breath mingles with hers between them as her face screws up in exquisite pleasure.

Then he's speeding up and she's meeting him thrust for thrust and his mouth is on hers as she starts keening with the edges of her orgasm. He shoots her over with a couple of well-timed and gloriously rough swipes and he kisses her through the climax. Then she's doing the same to him, keeping him silent with her kiss if his low moan is any indication.

When they've finally recovered, when they're dressed and garbage dealt with, Callen looks at her from the door. She knows she's a little worse for wear and has every intention of heading to the ladies room to make sure she can put her ponytail back together but then he smirks at her, eyes heated and warm and there's pride in his eyes at her disheveled appearance.

She fidgets slightly and says, "Stop smirking."

There must be something in her voice, because there's a spark of awareness that lasts the rest of the day. When they're packing up to leave, both she and Callen linger until Deeks and Sam are gone. Then he's stepping towards her, that smirk on his face.

He pauses and though he's not much of a drama queen she knows it's for effect, knows with startling clarity that he's aware that smirk makes liquid pool in her stomach. "You get to my place first, you can be on top."


	2. The Shock of Them

She beats him, and by much more than a hair's breadth. In fact, she beats him by a whole twenty minutes and she knows she did it at a legally acceptable pace. Which makes her wonder what the hell is taking him so long. Because she's twenty minutes early, she does pick the back lock and slide inside, eager to see the place before he comes in.

No one's seen his house. Sam's seen the outside, but she's almost positive the inside isn't for anyone's eyes. So she knows there's an element of vulnerability in what they're doing, in the invitation alone. She's okay with that. She's honoured and a little humbled by it, she thinks as she stops at a little yellow box on the mantel. That doesn't mean she's going to play nice and let him be on top.

Even he can't avoid the little creek in the floor just to the left of the fireplace. Not that it matters; she's known he was there for at least five minutes. She lets him play when his hands settle on her shoulders and then slide down her arms. He's pushing at her shirt eagerly and the speed surprises her a little. Not that she necessarily thinks he's the type to take his time. She's not sure she's ever really considered what kind of a man he is in bed. Her fantasies haven't been consistent enough.

She shivers as she hears the cotton fall to the floor, but doesn't turn around. She won, and she knows he's good for it, so she's willing to let him play until she can take control again. She wonders briefly if the fact that she's willing to give up control because he is comes from years working together and trusting each other. But then his teeth scratch gently at his shoulder and she doesn't care why. She just cares that it is.

His hands slide around to her stomach, playing with her belt. She's already hot and wet and she knows it. The anticipation on the drive alone had her rubbing her thighs together. But she can also be patient. She is patient. Especially when she knows what the endgame is. Because if it was that good against a wall, she can only imagine what it'll be like when she's pushing down on him. She shivers at the thought.

"You want this."

She recognizes he's asking the question. He has a way about him that's gentlemanly and arrogant at the same time, putting her first while sounding like he's putting her second. "Oh yeah."

He brings his mouth into play as his fingers handle her belt, trailing up her shoulder as her head tilts to the side. Her ponytail slides with it and when her jeans are, once again, open, his hand comes up to pull the elastic from the curls. Her hair tumbles down and to the side, cascading over her right shoulder and arm as her breath speeds up. His right hand wraps in the strands as his left splays just below her belly button and his mouth moves up to nibble her ear.

The pleasure thunders in her blood and she pushes her ass back against him. She can feel the bulge in his pants, can feel how much he wants her and revels in the little groan that leaves his mouth as she rubs tantalizingly.

"We're going to start here," he whispers, breath fanning down her neck. "Just like this."

He revels in the feel of her as he slides his hand beneath the band of her panties. He doesn't waste any time here, because he knows he's going to play fair, if for no other reason than to see her naked and moving above him. Unlike her he has fantasized about this. Or, at least, thought about it. She's hot as hell and he's a man who works with her every day. He's seen her strengths and her weaknesses and he has yet to dislike what he sees.

Especially like this, especially when she feels like this. Especially when he can feel her pushing against him. If this is what she'll feel like as she moves over him he's not sure he can wait. But for her, for this, he will and he slides between soaking curls to find her. She jolts forward, her hips bucking and her hands coming up to grip the edge of the mantel. He watches her head tilt forward, thrilled that he can make this composed, stoic woman melt into a quivering pile of very soft flesh.

He doesn't drag it out, doesn't see the point when all he wants is to feel her stiffen, knowing he's thrown her over the edge again.

"Oh, oh, oh!"

Then she's gone and he's grinning against her shoulder, relentless as he strokes her through the entirety of her climax. Finally she sags and he grins, unhooking her bra before spinning her around.

"I'd call that cheating, but," she cups him through his pants, "there is this."

His eyes slide closed despite the view of her bra falling down her arms. "I have a bed."

"Oh good." And she lets her bra drop on top of her shirt. She's half naked in what should be his living room and her absolute confidence makes him twitch uncomfortably against his zipper. "That chair was going to hurt my knees."

He makes a mental note as he raises her eyebrow, because that doesn't actually sound all that terrible – in fact it sounds pretty hot – and instead tugs at her jeans. She lets him slip them over her hips and down her thighs until she can pull her feet from the legs. She kicks them with her shirt and bra, then he's walking backwards. She entertains herself with the buttons of his shirt and she's just spreading his shirt when he tips himself backwards.

She squeaks when he pulls her down with him, splaying her hands on his chest. She's surprised that they're both laughing, so much so that her fingers come up to trace his upturned mouth. "You don't smile enough."

"Sure I do," he replies, trying to focus while her fingers dance patters between his five bullet scars. He's got more than that, but he knows those are still the most visible. They haven't fully faded, even after two years. He doesn't see them any more. He wonders vaguely if she does.

Then she's leaning in to kiss him slow and dirty and he doesn't give a shit if she sees his scars. Because she's here, on top of him, eager if the tempo of her hips is any indication, so his scars, quite obviously, don't faze her. Then again, she's probably the type that sees them as a testament to his survival. She's the optimistic type of person. He splays one hand over her back as he sits up and she takes her cue, pushing the shirt off his shoulders. She throws it aside and moves her hands to his pants, balancing precariously on her knees. He shuffles off the bed and lifts his hips enough for her to pull them and his boxers down.

He's naked, and she's in her panties and he knows he isn't sure he can believe it. If the little glint in her eyes is any indication she can't either. After so many years with nothing it's a little surreal, but as he feels the damp heat of her panties against him and he knows it's very real. And he wants to take advantage.

She slides her panties down her own legs, then presses her heat against him. He's felt her already, been inside her already, and he's surprised at how the need claws up his stomach. Her eyes are glowing, hot, heavy. Her eyes darted to his one bedside table as she spreads her legs further, pressing wet heat against his length. His head presses back into the pillows and she chuckles lowly before pressing her mouth against his collarbone.

"Condom, G."

He grasps her hand, stretching her against him as he tugs her hand towards the bedside table. Her mouth continues up his neck as she continues the reach, deliberately pressing and stretching now until she pulls open the little drawer. He watches her rip it open with her teeth, and she finds a thrill in the darkening cobalt of his eyes. A flick of her wrist slides the rubber over his length and he tries not to be impressed or irritated by it.

Not that it's difficult because she's wrapped her fingers around him to hold him steady while she slides down. It's a smooth glide, helped along by both her own arousal and her previous climax. She knows what she wants and it's obvious because she starts moving immediately and he has to grip her hips to slow her down. He doesn't want to rush this and he doesn't want to dwell on why. What he does know is that if this is a mistake, he wants to damn well enjoy it.

She releases a whimper that tightens his gut, but he doesn't release her, doesn't allow her to speed up. Instead, he slips a hand inward, circling her, pressing, experimenting. She slows down to feel it, and he's partially surprised she does. But he lets her play, lets himself play and he takes her to the edge twice before nudging her over. He tries to focus on how good she feels as she flutters around him, but he can't take his eyes off of the gentle undulations she manages to continue despite the pleasure she's obviously feeling.

She collapses on top of him for a moment, breathing harshly, her hips stopping. It takes her a minute to catch her breath enough to do anything. Then she's only pushing herself up to breathe in his ear.

"Well, all you had to do was ask."

He chuckles, but this time doesn't stop the quick tempo she sets with her hips. He lets her control this one, if only because he's not sure he has a handle on his anymore. She pushes herself up, balancing herself against his chest while her thighs take all the pressure. She can't feel them, but she knows it has nothing to do with overworked muscles. Her world has already narrowed down to the feeling of him beneath her and the control he's given her.

She doesn't worry about her own pleasure this time, just ensuring he gets his and she starts to squeeze every time she lifts. He actually bucks into her the first time she does it and she grins. The second, he just groans and he starts matching her every thrust with one of his own. She watches him, watches the way his head presses back again and his eyes actually close. Then she's leaning down, pressing her breasts against his chest and her mouth against his.

She's a little surprised when that's enough. He lets out a long, low groan and presses his hand against her lower back, holding her in place as his hips ram into hers with a final strong thrust.

He slides his arm around her lower back before he's even caught his breath, holding her against him. She's not sure what to do about that, because they're co-workers and partners and now, apparently, lovers and she can't help but ask herself how far that's going to go.

She surprises herself though because he fades out quickly and she doesn't move. She could slip away, she's pretty sure she has enough skills for that, despite how lightly he sleeps. Instead, she allows her body to relax and slips into sleep herself.

The next morning she leaves early and they don't talk about it. But he's slept and slept deeply and she's refreshed and relaxed. Still, there's an unstated promise for them not to talk about it.

But there's a heat in his eyes when she finally makes it through the bullpen and she brushes against him deliberately when they head up to Eric's lair for a case. They're not finished. It's painfully obvious and she knows it's just a matter of time before they break again.

For now, she's okay to pretend.


	3. The Change in Reality

He's lost count of the number of times they've done this.

It's a reflection in itself, both of who they are and what they look for. What they need. Instant gratification, a moment out of time that lets them pretend that they're not robots. It helps them see that there are people under the agents, that they're human. Sure, they can become anyone at will but that's not what this is about.

This, must to his surprise, is about G and Kensi.

As if that's not a mindfuck in itself.

They're so different, really. Beyond being obviously different. She's the type that ties herself down, that wants to tie herself down someday, despite the danger, despite what they do. Because their job is going to hunt them long after they've gotten out of the game. That's what happens when you make enemies. They'll have to move to the boonies, avoid neighbours and friendships… He knows that's not what she wants.

Conversely, he'd be okay with that. He's not always a big fan of people, he's pretty isolationist by nature. He learned young that relationships are a burden. More importantly, relationship can hurt. Badly. It hurt like a bitch when they lost Dom. So he avoids making attachments. It's a survival instinct honed over years and cases. Though really, just years. He's been on his own for so long that he's pretty sure being alone for a little bit longer won't kill him. It hasn't yet.

And at the same time he's so far from alone. He's got Sam on the job, nagging him, pestering him. Sure he battles back but it's self-preservation. Okay, and a lot of fun. Now, he thinks as he lets himself into Kensi's apartment – lets himself in – he's got Kensi here. Off the job, where she doesn't nag him but cuddles up to his side. He's never thought he's really needed to be wrapped up in humanity but she does that for him. He never thought he'd hate being alone, but she doesn't make him feel like that.

If anything, they're alone together.

He's locked the door and dropped his keys on the little table beside it when he finally registers the shower running. It's not a unique experience. Kensi showers twice, once in the morning and once at night. He's learned the night ones are about washing away the job. He'd try it, but he finds running so much more cathartic.

Or this.

Because he slips through her bathroom door easily. She doesn't lock it, not that he blames her and she knows he's there. She doesn't react though, doesn't step out from beneath the spray. But she doesn't protest either when he strips down and steps in with her.

Her hair is almost black from the water and she's got her head tilted back so the spray hits her neck. Has he ever really noticed how beautiful she is? She's all lean lines and subtle curves and now that he's seen her naked too many times to count he finds himself thinking the same thing in ops. On the job. Whenever she's within eyesight. And hell, even when she's not because somewhere along the way, he's developed some twisted radar.

She lets him slide his hands up her sides, from the flare of her hips until he can slide around to cup her breasts. She moans her approval, low and raspy and he leans forward to press his lips to the bare skin of her shoulder. She's the one that reaches up and moves her hair out of the way while his fingers dance across sensitive skin. And he's not one to disappoint her. He follows the bare skin of her neck with his tongue until he can get to that spot just behind her ear. It makes her knees shake and he chuckles darkly into the skin.

She's having none of it though.

In a blink she's got him pushed up against the other wall, her mouth fused to his. She wants him and it's a shock. It's invisible, for all intents and purposes. They're paid to act, and they do it so well that the team has absolutely no idea about them. About what they do together, here, in their after hours. They're both glad for it if only because there's so much wrong with what they're doing.

But that's not the point of this particular exercise. It always takes him a moment to catch up to the game she wants to play. Sometimes, he goes along with it. Why not, when the end result is the same whether they do it his way or hers? Sometimes he's dead set against what she wants. It's funny though, because those are the days she doesn't fight him so hard. In the playful dark, they 'take turns', trying to see who'll break first, but when he just really doesn't want to do it her way, the fight is shorter.

He refuses to say she knows what he needs.

He catches her elbows when she starts to trail her mouth down his neck. He knows what she's aiming for and he has plans of his own. He didn't come here to get, he came to give. It's an overwhelming and disturbing concept, really because he is not used to giving. At all. Well, it's a sweeping generalization but the point still stands. He's independent, isolated, and he chose that. But here he is, with his mouth against her neck and his hands on her ass, keeping her hips flush to his. Keeping her immobile.

She fights, kind of, wriggling against him and it does nothing but force a moan from his throat. He digs his teeth into the skin of her pulse point, reveling in the mewl that she releases. The sounds that come out of her when they're like this are absolutely nothing like the headstrong agent he's used to. It's a shocking thrill to know that she's letting him hear them.

"Stop."

She does. Dead, panting in his ear, fingers tensing reflexively around the back of his neck. The control washes over him in a wave of arousal and he hitches her leg around his hip as best he can. Really, her knee ends up braced on the wall, but it's not important. What is important is the trail of his fingers around the leg-meets-buttocks seam, sliding against damp curls. He brushes a finger into her folds, testing, waiting and grins when he discovers that the slick heat isn't entirely from the shower.

She moans and buries her face in his shoulder. Her hips move of their own accord, thrusting against the length of him. She's hot for him, hot enough that his fingers are sliding easily through her folds. He knows that the shower is one of her favourite places – something about the heat and steam he's pretty sure – but this?

He licks her collarbone and asks, "How long have you been thinking about this?"

The question startles her. Either that, or his voice is lower than he thought. A low rasp is one of her things too. Low rasp in the shower? Yeah, she's pretty much gone. But she was gone before he stepped in, before she knew he was going to do this. And he knows he's nowhere near that predictable.

Her hands move, and she's trying to distract him. Too bad he knows better. He catches her wrists, surprised at the whimper she releases when his fingers leave her center. A haze passes over his vision because she really wants this. Has he ever seen her this worked up before they've even started foreplay?

"How long?"

There's a wicked gleam in her eye as she searches his face, then she's leaning into his ear. "All day."

Dear God.

"See, I had this dream last night," she goes on, her hips undulating against his. He'd make her stop but that would require releasing her arms, and her hands can be more devastating than the slick heat she's rubbing against him. "And I've been…" She gives a deliberate thrust this time, and he wonders if she's trying to get him inside without help. "So hot since then."

All day. All freaking day. And he calls himself observant.

"You have no idea how many times I thought of just… taking care of it." She manages, despite his grip on her hands, to get to his ear. A sharp little nip and it's his turn to jerk against her. "But this seemed like so much more fun."

She's going to kill him.

He's going to think about the implications of that another day because the want coursing through his system is new. And specific.

Her.

He spins them and her back hits the wall with enough strength to force the air from her lungs. She's laughing into their next kiss, but it turns to a deep moan when he hitches her leg all the way around his hip. He doesn't worry about protection because she's on birth control – for reasons other than protection, he was surprised and a little disgusted to discover – and slides into that wet heat in a delicious thrust.

She releases a sigh. A goddamned sigh that says yes and finally at the same time. Sure, she's not quiet when they're together but this? This is something he hears so rarely. She really wants this, really wants him and he ruthlessly shoves back the panic he can feel at the bottom of his spine. Then she moves and he realizes that maybe that wasn't panic. It's tension, heat, arousal and her wrapped up in some insatiable need.

He's so screwed.

Figuratively, definitely, and in a few minutes literally too.

So he focuses on the literal, cupping and supporting her ass while they work on finding a rhythm that works for both of them. It takes them a few false starts because shower sex, they both know, can be dangerous but they find it quickly enough. It only takes a few thrusts before she's moaning with every move, sensitive and overheated and he cannot believe what her need does to his. In those few thrusts he's on the edge with her, recounting information on his aliases to try and keep himself from letting go first. Her hand comes up to cup her breast, to squeeze the nipple and he takes his cue to go for the other one.

With just a little pressure of his teeth, she's screaming her release.

Actually screaming.

It's such an ego boost that he follows her without realizing it, startling himself with the timing and intensity. Her legs slide from his waist as she comes down looking like the cat that ate the canary and sighing in contentment.

"We need to think of a better system," she says when her eyes meet his, languid heat still in them.

He simply arches an eyebrow.

She mirrors the gesture. "I wasn't kidding when I said 'all day', Callen."

It's a matter-of-fact statement, not that he expects anything else coming from her when they're talking about sex, but it's enough to feel like she's punched him in the gut regardless. This goes way beyond scratching an itch and there's a part of him panicking about how he let this get so out of hand.

It shouldn't be this way.

But then she's kissing him again, slowly, thoroughly and his hands are back around her waist. They're not ready for round two and he recognizes this as a sort of thank you. It does the job though and wipes his brain of anything but this. He's not thinking of his feelings, or hers, just them, like this, in her shower, enjoying each other.

She smooths a thumb over his cheek when she pulls away. "Chinese or pizza?"

"Indian or Mexican," he counters.

She grins. "I'll surprise you."

She always does.


	4. The Unpredictability of Emotion

Kensi's got the hots for Callen.

It's something she never anticipated. How could she? She works with the man for Pete's sake and she knows better than to get involved with coworkers.

Or, well, she did. Or she does and she's ignoring it, she's not quite sure which way the pendulum swings this time. Point of the matter is that she's definitely got the hots for him. Hell, flirting with Deeks no longer even holds the appeal it once did. It's been an ego boost in the past because she's not as blind as she lets Deeks believe. He totally wants her and she knows it. Which means Callen knows it.

She catches a flash every once in a while, when Deeks says something particularly inappropriate, but he's yet to freak out. And until he does, it's easier to encourage Deeks. It means no one suspects her and Callen. And though they pretend that it's not a big deal, it totally is. All mocking aside, she knows it could be dangerous. Objectivity is so important and how often are they undercover?

But she's discovered that denial doesn't make it go away. She still watches him when they're in the bullpen, still uses how many excuses to lean over his shoulder or into his personal space. And it's totally her initiation, not that she's surprised by it. He's so much more reserved and always has been. She takes no offense and certainly doesn't consider it an indication of what he's not feeling.

She's smarter than that.

Things between them are much too hot for there to be just attraction. They're explosive and still there. All she knows is that it's been months now. Months where they've screwed each other silly and senseless. There's been more than one morning she's come in with her throat a little less than perfect, a brand on her skin just out of sight. The latter always makes her shiver pleasantly. She's as progressive as the next female federal agent, but there's something about being possessed that heats her insides.

Or maybe it's just because it's Callen.

She's been studiously avoiding those thoughts though. She doesn't want to center this on one man. It's so dangerous for her, someone who could be taken away in the blink of an eye. Even if Callen knows it –because, hello, same job – it's not something she feels comfortable doing. Her father did that, left her behind, and so did Jack, so she knows what it feels like. She's long ago vowed to avoid doing the same to someone else.

It's a solitary existence, but a necessary one. She's a big believer in fair and eternal happiness and has long figured that just because she can't have it doesn't mean she should keep others from doing the same. And, of course, with Callen, there's the added aspect of the fact that he could leave her behind. She's been there once, knows it almost destroyed her, and she's definitely nowhere near sure she could handle it again.

So she convinces herself that everything between them is explosive attraction. If they buy each other dinner, make each other coffee, or worry way too much when they're in the field, it's an unrealistic representation and illusionary. It's Callen. He's a nomad. OSP is the closest thing he has to belonging, and that's another thing she won't do.

Because she believes that they'll break. They always do. The pressure, the intensity, the emotions… She's yet to find a man that can handle all of that. And, of course, she's got enough issues for Freud to have a field day. For her and Callen breaking cannot be an option. If they break, they risk ruining the entire team and they rely too much on each other for her to feel comfortable with that. She knows the team wouldn't be the same without Callen and who would keep Deeks in line if she wasn't there? They understand each other's quirks and how to balance those with the job. They've worked together too long and too hard to allow for a switch.

Well, and change isn't something they do well with either. In fact, they all kind of freak out at the mere mention. She's worked with Callen before, but the partner switch threw her off. She'd hated it, and Hunter. She's studiously avoided the inherent hatred that she'd had, merely because Callen had disliked her so completely.

"Were you making dinner?"

Her head shoots up and to the doorway. He's leaning against the frame arms crossed over his chest and she wants to go to him. He senses it, or sees it, and she doesn't really care when he holds out his hand.

"Maybe."

She takes it, feels the warmth infuse her body and pretends it's from the natural attraction to the way his shirt pulls across his chest. It has nothing to do with the simple touch of his hand on her skin that sends goosebumps rioting over her body.

His eyes slide from clear blue to cobalt at the slide of her skin against his and her insides quiver. She pretends it doesn't happen, pretends that this is normal attraction and there's nothing deeper at play, but she also knows it's getting harder and harder to deny that this is more than just 'hots'. This is sliding into dangerous territory because instead of seeking comfort elsewhere after a long day, she's been coming to him.

When her mouth meets hers it's tender. It's a bit of a shock, but then again, she doesn't usually stand over a cutting board of vegetables completely zoned off into her own mind. She likes to think her head is a dangerous place and tries to avoid getting caught up in it. It's against the personality she portrays after all. If she gets caught up in her head things can hurt her, people can hurt her, thoughts can hurt her. So she pretends she's just a one-night girl.

Except months is so much longer than one night. Soon, she's not going to be able to pretend that there isn't something more at play and she's not sure if that's a good or bad thing. She shouldn't let it become too much, but she's also pretty sure she's past the point of no return. There's nothing she can do about what's churning and burning in her chest as his mouth works against hers.

She relaxes and she feels a hand trail up her spine. Her other is still wrapped in his and he brings it up around his neck. His kiss deepens. Her response is instantaneous.

"Didn't know you could cook."

She shivers because the words are mumbled against her mouth and it's in that low voice that makes her hot all over. She wants to say something about how the fact that she doesn't, doesn't mean she can't, but he's already got her. She's putty in his hands. Or against them. Whatever.

He knows it. Or gets it, because he's tugging her backwards. She follows, trying not to shiver when his thumb brushes against the skin at the bottom of her spine. Her shirt's ridden up – or he's pushed it up, but really, that's just semantics – and he can get to skin now. Her spine, her hips, the top of her ass…

So it takes her a moment to realize he's not aiming for his bedroom and the bed she definitely knows he has. Not just an air mattress on the floor or his dusty military-issue. A real bed with a real mattress that is actually sinful, both to sleep on and… well, they don't always sleep when they collapse onto that particular surface. Instead, he's pulling her into the living room and the single chair that is still there. She's pestered him about getting more than one, but not with any strength. It's kind of a draw that they have to share and-

She's actually thankful when he pulls her down onto his lap. Her mind is going dangerous places about a real them and sitting on that chair after a bad day. It's a terrible idea, and a horrible path to follow and she lets her thoughts scatter when his applies his lips to her neck. The room is still dark and there's something alluring about doing this in front of his very open front window when all they'll cast is silhouettes.

And here she'd thought she knew all of her kinks, but between this and their little tryst at the office, she's wondering if he's bringing some out of her. Then his hand slides up her back, taking her shirt with it and she lets him drop it to the floor. She takes her own ponytail out and his hands immediately thread through the dark tresses. It's a control thing, because he uses it to pull her mouth back to his and angle her just right. Her knees are straddling his lap and she shifts forward, pressing every inch of her body against his and when she pushes down with her hips she releases a moan. It feels phenomenal.

His hands slide away from her hair to cup her neck, pressing gently against her trachea. It's not hard enough to do anything but trigger the nerves and she swallows convulsively. His eyes follow his fingers as her skin shifts against his before he slips his hands over her shoulders. Her arms are hooked around his neck for balance as her hips slide against his but his focus is on her, on the way her chest is heaving. She knows because he wastes no time in unhooking her bra.

She whimpers her dislike when his hands drop to her lower spine but she catches on, pushing back against his hands for support as she removes her bra. Then his hands are sliding up her spine, feathering across her sides until he can ghost one over her breast. She presses down, hard, and feels him fit perfectly against her, despite two pairs of jeans.

It's not enough skin though and she rips his shirt over his head. Then she's sliding off his lap to the floor, trailing her hands over his bare chest as she goes. Her fingers are surprisingly agile as she deals with the button and zipper of his jeans, being careful as she peels the fabric away from the hard length of him. She tugs on the pants and snags his underwear when he lifts his hips to help her. By the time his clothes have hit his knees she's been distracted and she leaves them there as she wraps her hand around him.

His head immediately flies back against the headrest as she watches with unholy glee. She has power here, power that makes her arousal pump harder in her veins. She likes bringing him to his knees and she takes the opportunity now. Plus, if she's focusing on how good he feels in her mouth she can ignore the other emotions welling up in her chest.

When his hand wraps gently in her hair, guiding her with strength and pace, she digs her nails into his thighs. He hisses but his hips arch and his hand relaxes. Instead, he nudges her when he wants more, tugs gently when he's close to the edge and uses his grip to pull her away completely when he's seconds from letting go. She lets him slide out of her mouth, getting her tongue under the ridge at the last second. His eyes go feral when she does and he's yanking her up by her shoulders.

She's glad turning him on makes her hot, because she's slick when his fingers slide against her. It means he's inside a split second later and she's moving her hips with everything she's worth until she finds just the right spot. Then she's gasping his name, gripping his shoulders and virtually keening as her back arches. He takes his cue from there, sliding his palm down the center of her body, twisting at the last minute until the tip of his middle finger is against the hot bundle of nerves at her center. She gasps and tightens her grip on his neck, leaning her body back against the palm he's once again planted at the bottom of her spine.

His eyes focus on her, totally and completely and she can't look away from the hot gaze as her body starts to shake with her climax. His finger doesn't stop moving and her hips can't stop pushing and grinding against his until she collapses against him. He leaves his finger against her and starts moving, slow steady pushes that burn her over-sensitive flesh. He's focused, intent and patient as he strokes and thrusts until she flares in his arms. He's learned after a good orgasm it takes persistence and patience to get her over again. He's got both in spades and she has absolutely no idea how he's holding on while her brain is scattering.

He grins when she chokes on her breath, her entire body going taut. It's his cue, the moment she hits her second wind and she knows it's primal pride that makes him look so dangerous. He leans into her neck and bites at her pulse.

"Again," he whispers as his hips speed up and his finger moves more insistently against her. It's all she can do to suck in air as he plays her like a violin. Her world shatters when she hits that peak again and she hears him groan as his own release follows.

In the aftermath, they just sit there, still wrapped around each other. She dozes in and out of consciousness for a while before she finally gets control of her body enough to slowly stand. He groans at the loss and she smiles in feminine pride. Still, she knows they have to clean up, so she just releases a throaty chuckle as she waits for him to open his eyes.

When he does, they roam her body, and against everything she's ever believed about herself, she feels her body react. He arches an eyebrow in surprise and she offers him a rueful smile. She can't help her attraction and they are going to the shower after all.

Then it hits her, like bricks to the face.

This isn't just the 'hots' for Callen. Without the conscious permission of her brain she's segued into something deeper. Something that means she can get hurt.

As the fear sweeps through her, so does the resignation. She's stuck, because things between them feel too good for her to give up, regardless of the fact that she should. That she has to.

Then he's distracting her with a kiss, and a tug on her hand.

Clean up. Right. After that, maybe in the morning, she can totally panic.

For now, it's too good.

The rest, she decides with surprising conviction, considering what 'something more' means, can wait for another day.


	5. The Problem in Flirting

Callen's got a possessive streak.

If she'd known, Kensi likes to believe she would have toned it down. Yeah, they're not in the 'r-word' and they can't be and she's holding back so much but none of that matters. It's about respect. It has nothing to do with the fact that she doesn't like the idea of hurting him. Like, really doesn't like the idea.

They're friends. Colleagues, friends, and now both with some rather superb benefits. They don't let it trail onto the job. They keep their distance, and they don't fight because, hey, they're not doing the whole 'r-word' thing. And to the extent of her knowledge, Kensi can't remember a time when Callen's ever really been possessive when he's Callen. If the profile called for it, sure, but it's not like she's ever seen him growl his superiority at a rival male.

But that's what she's pretty sure he was doing almost all day.

Full days in the bullpen are rare, and rarer still when she accounts for the fact that it was the four of them. One of them is always off on some case, out and about, doing something. But not today. Today they were all there and Deeks was being Deeks. Because they're not in an 'r-word' and she doesn't want anyone to think they are, she responded. Of course she did. With Deeks, it's like s gave of survival.

Every time there was a twist in her gut, but if she lets them believe that she's not flirting with Deeks anymore then someone's going to start asking questions and when it comes down to it, she's not sure she can lie about this. If she keeps it vague, they'll keep poking, and if Deeks keeps poking, she knows, eventually, she'll spill it all because she's so damn exasperated. So she flirts. It's option B.

When she opens the door at Callen's brisk knock, she's pretty sure it's about to become Option Never Again.

His eyes are blazing and it doesn't take her training to see the way his body's humming. Hers responds, tightens, heats and she can feel a dampness settling between her legs. There is something about a Callen so absorbed in her that he's entirely out of control.

Well, absorbed in her is probably generous because the way he grasps the back of her neck isn't about a loss of control. It's plain and simple heated possession.

Her body arches without her permission as his mouth fuses to hers. Desperation rises in her, making her blood burn just beneath the heated surface of her skin. She goes loose, pliant so it takes no effort for him to shove her back further into the apartment. Not that she's really resisting all that much at the moment.

At the end of the day, she trusts him. Despite his rough handling of her so far, she knows he won't actually hurt her. Is it bad that she's kind of attracted to his little streak of quasi-violence?

He's on her seconds after the door slams and the thought finishes manifesting. He breaks more than a few seams when he yanks her t-shirt over her head. His hand slides into her hair, pulling her ponytail loose and her head back. His other is on her hip, tight enough to likely leave a bruise. Hers are gripping the long-sleeved tee he's wearing, just for purchase, her fingers clenching and releasing. She's probably scratching, she vaguely thinks, but since there's no reaction but a bite at her neck that actually makes her gasp and moan, she figures it's not that big of a deal.

She thinks about ripping his shirt – she's pretty sure she could – but her clenching fingers have already inched it up. When she goes for the shirt, he releases her completely to grab her wrists. The thrill that races through her shouldn't be so delicious, but Kensi barely has time to consider the pros and cons of a latent kinky streak before he's managed to cuff her hands behind her back with one of his own. His teeth sink into her collarbone and she actually whimpers.

He reacts instinctively, bringing her hips roughly against his by pressing against the bottom of her spine with her manacled wrists. His other hand rips at her bra and she's not at all shocked when it tears at the clasp. He' growls because it won't just go – the straps are still on her shoulders, after all – and she wants to laugh, but he releases her. He fights with the fabric while she stands there dumbly until it's lying on the floor with her shirt. It's so heatedly rough that she can barely breathe, let alone act. So she offers no resistance when he grabs her wrists again and herds her to the bedroom.

It's only there that she puts up the necessary resistance to get his shirt off and his pants undone. She wrestles with him, sweaty skin to sweaty skin, to ensure that she lands on her back when she hits the mattress. She's drawn a line and though his eyes blaze, he respects it. It's absolute proof of what she already knows. He'll never push her beyond where she's willing to go.

"I had to watch you. All day."

It's an odd phrase considering everything around their non-r-word that they haven't talked about.

Like the fact that it's kind of really turning into the r-word.

But really, she's got other things on her mind. Like the press of him against her. Now he's got her arms above her head, holding them there. When he runs out of skin he can get his mouth on, he meets her gaze, shakes them slightly.

Don't move.

She gets the message and heaves out a breath of air that reeks of just how aroused she is.

"You flirt with him."

She's a little shocked at the accusation in his voice and just arches an eyebrow. "I've always flirted with Deeks." Yeah, she's that quick of a study.

She gets a nip on the delicate skin of her breast for that. It makes the air back up in her lungs and her eyes slide closed. His possessive streak shouldn't turn her on like this.

"Not anymore."

She breaks the rules then, reaching up to capture his ears. "Callen. G."

He tries to break free but she squeezes, gently, yet hard enough to hold his attention. His eyes blaze and they both know he could break it if he wanted, go back to what they were doing. Instead, he locks his eyes on hers, his chest pressing against her stomach with every heaving breath. She forces herself to breathe.

"That sounds like commitment."

The words are barely louder than a breath, but he totally hears them. His eyes widen and his face goes blank. He rolls away and Kensi closes her eyes against the sting. She shouldn't have brought it up. She'd known it was a bad idea because now she's hot and bothered and he's warring between guarded and possessive and what the freaking hell? Where had that even come from?

Which, really, is a stupid question. She knows exactly where it comes from. It comes from the part that totally saw this coming, the part that told her it was time to put a stop to this nonsense before it goes too far. Well, surprise, she thinks to herself, because this kind of possession is the kind that says 'mine'. This isn't just 'sex for the sake of it', or 'after case reaffirmation' sex, this is 'you were flirting with another guy and I was definitely jealous' sex. Which would mean that he has some sort of claim over her.

It's a conversation topic they've been carefully avoiding.

But now it's bare in front of them and it takes a surprising amount of her training to keep her face neutral. Arousal still burns her blood but now there's fear mixed in there because regardless of whether or not this is an r-word, it's not something she wants to screw up over something stupid. She tugs on his head, bringing him up her body with a slide that almost derails her thoughts. She wants an answer, and yet, simultaneously doesn't. Either way, he settles rather comfortably in the cradle of her body.

"I shouldn't want you like this."

She blinks. She knows the feeling. The thought never makes it to her mouth.

"I shouldn't care about how much you flirt with your partner." But there's acid in his tone and he spits out 'partner' in such a way that she tugs rather sharply on his ear for the effort. Whether this thing with Callen is about to turn into something shockingly serious or end completely, she won't tolerate him talking about her partner like that. Deeks has her back and that, at the end of the day, is what matters.

"I shouldn't watch you, worry about you."

She's surprised when his hands come up to smooth her hair back. It's an oddly tender gesture for the emotions rioting through his eyes. When Callen hits passionate, whether it's anger or arousal or something else, he can't hide his eyes.

"But I do."

Her stomach riots and she finds herself swallowing. It takes a few minutes and a few fish-like mouth movements before she manages to choke out. "I do too."

His forehead drops to her shoulder and her arms slide around his shoulders to adjust to the new position. He breathes heavily against her skin.

"We can't do commitment," he says after a moment.

Kensi's eyes slide closed. "I know. But we're doing it anyway, aren't we."

He doesn't answer, and silence settles over them.

"I don't think I can walk away," she whispers after a few moments.

He presses his lips to her ear, trails them down her jaw line. He says into her neck, "I don't either."

It's the closest either of them are going to get to any sort of confession so, he distracts her by tonguing the delicate skin at her pulse and she moans as pleasure riots anew. This is gentler though, and she drags the pads of her fingers over his back rather than her nails. His callouses send her nerves rioting as they slide down her sides, brushing the edges of her breasts and stopping to tease the delicate underside. She relaxes into the touch, breathes him in as his mouth comes back to hers.

This kiss is gentle, tender, There's passion under the surface, but it no longer holds the strong, possessive quality. The roughness makes her hot, but this… This leaves such an exquisite burn just under her skin that screams of desperation. The few times they've managed this slow, one of them eventually breaks, pushed beyond the limit into a pleading mass. Okay, it's usually her, but Callen can be just so good with his hands and his mouth… and when that kind of intensity is focused on her, it's hard not to be turned on.

He breathes her name into her breast and her body arches of it's own volition. The pleasure may be quieter but it's still there and he's got her far enough that she reacts without thought. When he finally takes the peak of her breast into his mouth, Kensi reacts like a livewire. It shocks him, heats him, and that possession is back with surprising vengeance.

And she knows because he darts down to leave a bite at her hip.

He soothes it with his tongue when she gasps, but they both know there's going to be a bruise. It's a bruise of honour, in a real sense and since he's moving away before she can find the brain power, let alone the breath, to scold him, she's willing to let it go. And hopes that when she sees it in the morning, she won't jump him back. Then thought scatters completely because he applies lips, teeth, tongue and fingers to the task of setting her aflame.

He accomplishes it too, and she's just thinking about relaxing when he redoubles his effort and has her back on the edge within seconds. She's choking on air, unable to get a grasp on anything and barely able to remember that there is more to the world than just this. When she's teetering, he stops and she curses at him, but he stops because he's reaching for a condom.

He doesn't so much slide in – though with how wet she is it wouldn't be difficult – as plunges and hits her in all the right spots on the way to have her catapulting over the edge with a choked cry. His movements aren't slow and they border on the edge of pain because she's so sensitive. He distracts her with a kiss, the taste of her on his tongue, and he manages to support himself with one arm so he can trail gentle fingers over her breast. It's a startling counterpoint to the strength of his thrusts, but it does what he wants it to and stokes the ember. The heat curls in her stomach again, and she arches into the feeling. He offers her a wicked smile, as if this is something he's seen coming and leans down to her ear.

"You're mine, Kensi."

The air and his words have breath backing up in her lungs. She struggles to breath as her nails dig into his shoulders. If he's essentially going to promise her it'll always be like this she's totally okay with the claim. In fact, she likes it, a lot and yeah, the emotion's dangerous but she's so past the point of caring. Neither of them can walk away, so they're in it together and with his hips pistoning against hers and the feeling of his hand against her breast, she surrenders to the sparks, the tremours and eventually, the orgasm as her body tenses and she cries out.

She must black out for a moment because when she manages to take stock of her situation Callen's beside her. He looks worn out, resting on his back with his eyes closed. But he's got a hand resting palm up on her stomach, just above her bellybutton, and though she's pretty sure it's not supposed to feel so good, it definitely does. It's a connection that in the aftermath of their kind-of-conversation, she wouldn't have anticipated.

"Yours, huh?" It's a low murmur and she's taking in the pleased exhaustion on his face. When he opens those blues though, they're stormy as if he doesn't want to confront this.

As if this is a huge leap.

She acknowledges the fact that he's so open with an audibly deep breath. Oh God. Because if he's making that leap she doesn't want him doing it without her. Not when she's just as scared. She gathers up air as she turns, grasping his wrist as she goes and tucking it just below the pillows between them. Then she slowly weaves her fingers through his.

"Okay."


	6. The Sting of Betrayal

She's pissed.

Actually, she's beyond pissed. She's angry. More, she's hurt. It doesn't matter how many times Callen, Sam, even Hetty tell her the decision was out of her hands – and out of Sam's or Callen's too – she's still beyond angry.

Deeks is her partner.

Sam and Callen are her team.

She'd known something was off.

Callen hunts her down, in that back corner where they first started all of this mess. She's not naïve enough to think that her own feelings aren't playing a role in this. It's the first time she's really had to confront them head on and it sucks. But he doesn't enter the room completely. He stands in the doorway, leaving it open, as she leans against the opposite wall, willing herself not to cry. Kensi Blye doesn't cry. Not over a case,.

But this, she knows in her heart of hearts, is more.

"Is this some passive-aggressive way of getting back at me?"

Even as the words come out of her mouth she knows they're wrong. There's nothing passive-aggressive about G Callen. At least, nothing passive.

He stands stoic, but she knows by now that a comment like that is going to sting. She's not going to lie and say that's not what she wants.

"Because if not, Callen, I'm out of reasons."

She's not and he knows it. Not by a long shot. She's trying to pretend that this isn't about trust, that this isn't about the team, that there isn't a fracture somewhere that she can't find. She's trying to pretend that this thing between them doesn't, won't, can't get between them and the job. They're nothing without NCIS, they both know it. They'd both be long lost wandering souls and neither of them is ready for that. Neither of them will face that.

But right now, she's not sure what to think.

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" she shoots back. "What kind of thought process goes into deciding to keep me in the dark?"

"It wasn't my decision."

"Bullshit," she spits out. He could have talked Hetty out of it. He can talk Hetty out of anything if he really wants to. Hell, how many times has she almost left? Even handed in her damn resignation letter, and Callen had seen to it that she still occupied that plush and lavishly decorated office.

"Kens-"

She flinches.

He pulls back, but not fast enough to hide the sliver of shock that slides on and off his face. She's never recoiled on him.

"This isn't about us."

He jumps straight to the point, and it kind of starts her enough that she feels her heart drop to her stomach. She'd figured it would just… end.

"If we're going to do this, really do this, do this like…." He shakes his head, but she knows. They both know. "Then it can't be about us."

Doesn't interfere with the job.

"It was always about Deeks," he goes on, and though he starts walking towards her, she doesn't step back. She can't, but she doesn't make a move to stop him either. "It was about making sure there was no way LAPD would think he was undercover. It had to be real."

"You made him shoot a man."

Callen lets pain flood him this time. "I know," he whispers.

"Do you have any idea what that does to him?" Tears are making her throat raw and Kensi hates herself for it. Hates herself even more for the vulnerability and the odd tenderness it brings out in him. Callen is so rarely tender that it still throws her off. She still doesn't like it.

"The same thing it does to the rest of us."

It rips them apart.

"And then… Callen, Hetty fired him." She doesn't have to elaborate. Callen'll catch on. Even Deeks has a place at NCIS, and his place is with them.

He snaps. "Do you think I didn't think of that?" he asks, voice hard and sharp. "Do you think I didn't try and find alternatives, that I didn't ask Hetty if there were any other options?"

Still, she holds her ground. She's not green and she's not afraid of him.

"If there was something else we could have done, Kensi, we would have done it. But we couldn't come up with a way to make it work and make it believable."

"I wouldn't have told him."

"You would. He'd know something was wrong and he'd needle. You hate when he needles."

The fact that he knows that, that he notices how much Deeks' poking irritates her is kind of sweet. But it's kind of annoying too because there is a part of her, a rational part, that knows he's right. Right now though, most of her is just hurt.

"Don't make this about us," he tells her, voice soft.

Don't break what we've built.

"It was always about the op."

"It will always be about the op."

But instead of reassuring her, it makes her sigh. "We're idiots."

The four words that come out of his throat next shock her.

"I don't think so."

Later, she'll reflect on how easy it's become for him to take her hand, how natural it is for her to weave her fingers through his when it's just the two of them. She does like the feeling of his palm in hers, and he's far from forgiven, but she's suddenly and raptly listening. Or, well, watching, because they don't say anything. Instead, it's there, in his face, how not wrong it is that they're doing this, that they're together.

"It's not right either."

He cocks his head to the side. He'll give her that. "Doesn't make us idiots."

Not for wanting the kind of connection they have. Not for building on it. But Kensi's so set in the idea that he's going to leave, that they always leave, that they almost made Deeks leave. It's too raw.

"Callen," she whispers.

It's a shock to both of them when he reacts by wrapping his arms around her. She wonders if it was all there for him, if her face told him how much it hurt to think that she'd have to let Deeks go.

That she'd be losing another partner.

"Come on," he says after a few minutes of just standing there. They're not usually all that affectionate, neither by nature truly are, but she'd needed that. And from the relaxed aura of his body, he had too. "I can't be here anymore."

She's putting that on the list of things she'd never expect to hear G Callen say. Every time she thinks she has him figured out…

He takes her out of the hacienda a back way she's never seen before, and she knows all of the nooks and crannies. She doesn't ask though. She's kind of intrigued, really. This is a true first and she doesn't want to ruin it by asking questions. If she can't help the thrill and they're being reckless, she figures she might as well jump all in. It's also a thrill, a huge thrill, because Callen spends more time at Ops than Hetty and the idea of him playing hooky…

Okay, it's hot.

It's odd because she wants to be mad – she is mad – but the fact that Callen is skipping out on work is something that is so out of character she can't help but follow. She's drawn to it. And yeah, maybe she's still looking for an apology.

She is, admittedly, a little surprised when he takes her to his house but then he's out of the car, around to the passenger's side and tugging her out of the vehicle by his hand. She goes with him because she's curious among the rest of it. She's surprised how tender he is when he gets her inside, backs her against the door.

"Callen?"

He kisses her. It's slow, it's tender and it takes her entirely by surprise. They've never been this gentle with each other. They've never been in this situation. Still, she wraps her arms around him, yields to him because in reality, it doesn't really matter how mad she is, the surprise of having him so gentle and just… Just being with him…

"It's not about us," he whispers as he separates from her, his hands sliding between her arms so he can cup her cheeks. "I wasn't even thinking about us."

It doesn't surprise her, can't surprise her. They've been so careful both with each other and with the team that there is a big part of her that knows what they're doing here, the gentle feeling of his lips feathering over her cheeks, will never cross. They can't let it cross. It's survival to keep it between them.

"The decision was about the job," he goes on, his breath against her ear. "The decision was about Deeks, about getting the guys, stopping the deal, saving the world."

She huffs out a laugh because Callen has no delusions of grandeur at all.

"You took the hit because you're Deeks' partner, not because you're Kensi." His mouth drops to her collarbone and she arches because his mouth and that delicate skin… "Not because you're Kensi."

His Kensi. She can hear it. Her skin bristles with goosebumps as his hands settle on her hips, tugging her shirt until he can get his thumbs on her skin. It's humming, really. There's energy crackling over her skin and she can feel it in his, but it's not the explosive heat they're used to. There's a quiet build to this. Sure, they've done slow, but nothing with this gentle, tender softness.

The emotion that's beneath this is so real. So incredibly real, and it makes her heart speed up, her breath come short in her lungs. He's not faring much better though. His eyes are that dark cobalt, the beautiful blue she loves and only sees in the seconds before he loses control. But it's there this time, for her.

"Say it, Kens."

She's not sure what he wants.

"This isn't about you. It's not about us. It's about the job." He pulls her shirt over her head as he says it, disposing of her bra without preamble. She figures out why a moment later when his mouth brushes gently against the top curve of her breast but doesn't go lower.

"Callen."

"Say it."

She moans instead, her head dropping back against the door.

"This was an op."

"This was an op," she repeats, eyes closed, and he rewards her by taking a nipple in his mouth. She moans, but he takes his time getting around to the pressure she really needs.

He doesn't know why he wants this, why he's not pushing her, why he's going so slow, so gentle. He knows the million things that have gone through her head since she figured out the white supremacist was one of theirs. He knows she's got abandonment issues, trust issues, and it had been his one big reluctance when he, Sam and Hetty had discussed it. But how the hell was he supposed to say that it wasn't good for Kensi without spilling everything? And that was assuming Hetty didn't know.

Hetty knew everything.

But Hetty wasn't who he was focusing, and he pushed the ops manager out of his head as he focused on Kensi beneath him. He'd been stupid to keep it from her. He should have told her the minute they were back in ops, but she's been too worried about Deeks. And yeah, okay, maybe there was a piece of him that was jealous that she'd been so shattered by the idea of losing Deeks, but he'd tried. Really he had because he understood that it was about losing another partner, about the Blye Curse she believed in.

But that damn curse was crap.

And maybe that was what this was about. Maybe this was about showing her that he cared. He'd made a decision as best he could with the given information, weighing the op, the mission, against her. Maybe he'd known they'd end up like this.

Analyzing it brings up questions he's not quite ready to think about, so he stubbornly shoves them aside. After all, he's got better things to do.

Speaking of.

She's grasped his ears, is tugging insistently even though he wants to move to her other breast. She lets out a grunt of irritation and he follows it with a sound of utter displeasure but lets her lift his head.

Her eyes are dark, black really. "It was never about us." She believes it. He can see it in her gaze. She can feel it in every muscle. "But it sucked."

Yeah, yeah it did. It sucked for all of them and really, he feels crappy for what he put his team through. He apologizes to her with a kiss, swiping his tongue into the depths of her mouth, taking his time to taste. She deals with his shirt until they're both half-naked against his door. Only then does he pull away, finding her gaze. His hands slide down to her ass and her hand reaches over to flip the lock just before he hoists her against him.

He has no problem carrying her to the bed, laying her out on the mattress. There's something about having her there that warms his insides in ways he'd thought impossible. But unbeknownst to her, she's teaching him a lot about what he can feel, about what he can let himself feel. They don't voice it, any of it, but he knows it. He's pretty sure of it anyway, and for now, that's as much as either of them can handle.

The point is, caring is a tame word for what burns through him when it comes to Kensi.

The point is, she's no better off.

They're both in deep.

So he distracts his thoughts with her skin, crawling with her as she scoots up the bed. Her hair fans against his utilitarian white sheets and he lifts his hand to stroke his finger gently down her cheek. She lets him, watching, waiting. She wants to know what he's going to do next.

He trails the finger down her body, smiling at the way her muscles quiver beneath his fingers. He swipes them along the edge of her jeans, along the expanse of skin just there. Her eyes flutter closed and he loves it, watches it, watches her body shudder when he slips it just beneath. He takes his time with her button and zipper, listening to her breath speed up, shocked and awed when he shouldn't be that she's even here.

She works with him when he slides her jeans and underwear down her legs, trying not to be embarrassed when he pulls off her boots and socks too. He takes the time to deal with his own shoes and socks before he trails his fingertips up her legs. He's using the lightest touch and it's driving her wild. The slow build, the gentle touch, the emotions beneath them both are creating both the most pleasant warmth and arousing sensation. He's taking his time with her, cataloging every arch of her back, every quiver and twitch as he inches closer to his goal.

Her.

He takes his time tracing around the delicate skin where her legs meet her hips. Teasing her. She could stop him, they both know it, but she doesn't. Instead, her hands clench in his sheets, letting him to what he wants.

Letting him show her.

Neither of them are 'words' people. They speak in actions, looks. How many ops would have gone sour if they'd had to talk? They've perfected this, the looks, the emotions, conveying so much – too much – in just a look.

Then he's touching her, stroking, rubbing and her thoughts scatter into the number of different languages she can say 'oh my God' in. They're a litany in her head as he brings his mouth into play and she wants to tell him to speed the hell up but she doesn't. He has something he wants to tell her and today, this is how he's doing it. Not that she's putting up that much of an argument.

Her climax is a slow wave that crashes over her, taking her under, drowning her in sensation. He draws it out, applies his mouth so she's over again in moments before his mouth trails up her stomach and over her breasts to reach her mouth. She sighs into the kiss, into him, bringing her hands up to the back of his head. She holds him there, wraps herself around him completely, absorbs him, until she realizes he's still wearing pants.

It takes seconds to rectify the problem and he lets her flip them over to return the favour. She explores instead of teases, wondering, learning cataloging the same way he did moments before. She takes her time sliding him into her mouth, taste, texture, all of it burning into her memory like she's never let it before. She feels freer in a lot of ways, like this is something she can learn. It's the first time she's put any faith in the strength of emotion in a long time and it makes it easier to pay attention, to watch, to listen.

And it's a dark thrill to know she can bring G Callen to his knees.

She lets him slide from her mouth when he's hard as granite and makes sure every inch of her body brushes against his as she slides up. Then she's straddling him, her hand wrapping around him to guide him in. He meets little resistance, helping her find a slow rhythm that works for both of them. They watch each other now, having the ability for the first time, a clarity of mind despite being pushed to that precipice. There's nothing violent or hot about this.

But it's all the better when she suddenly, surprisingly, tumbles over the edge. She's under him when the waves fade and he's kissing her as he speeds up, needing the extra friction. She pulls his head down, breathes into his ear, presses her mouth to his throat and feels him stiffen.

They don't gravitate to different sides of the bed when they've recovered, even though they will in their sleep. Instead, they wrap around each other.

After a moment, she looks up. "On the job, it's not about us. Ops come first."

They'd talked about it. He shrugs.

"No, G."

His first name, or first letter any way, has his eyes catching hers.

"I said it for you."

He kisses her, because he can't avoid it right now. Against his lips, he says those words. "On the job, ops come first."

And in the morning, there's a classy glass vase on her desk. Yesterday he chose to show her with touch, today he does it with flowers and she brings the simple, plain, gorgeous white rose to her nose, she finds herself surprisingly content with how deep they are.

At least they're there together.


	7. The Scariest of Steps

They're at an impasse.

After the fight over Deeks and the miss, things have gone back to a sort of quiet status quo. They know the r-word is a real relaitionship and they know that what they're doing is a relationship. They're not really hiding behind those pretenses anymore. But that's as far as they've gotten. They don't talk about it – won't talk about it – and that leaves them floating.

Because talking makes it real.

Kensi knows this. She's ridiculously aware of this. So is Callen. But neither of them can stop. Neither of them want to stop and that's the part they've established. It's the emotion so obviously under the surface that they won't touch.

Then he goes under.

It's part of the job and Kensi knows that. She's never had a problem with it before. They've established that they can't make this about the job, that them and the job are two entirely different things. The decisions they make on the job can't be affected by what they do off the job or they're both sunk. She knows that.

Logically.

Irrationally, she's a mess. It's stupid and irritating as hell because it's a weakness she doesn't usually tolerate. Sure, she gets worried when it's Sam and oh yeah she gets worried when it's Deeks, but this is something even more than that. This is a constant knowledge that Callen may not be coming back. And that is entirely unacceptable for an agent like her.

Hetty knows. It's so obvious and it's all Kensi's fault too. She's been staying late, even later than normal and though Deeks and Sam have essentially chalked it up to something personal – though Kensi hadn't been happy with the little glint in Sam's eye – Hetty checks up on her. She's even been on the phone with Callen during a check in while Kensi was sitting in front of her desk. It's the only word she's gotten from him since he's gone under.

She's not begrudging that. If she wants him to come back alive, she has to understand that he can't have any contact with her. It's beyond dangerous for him and potentially fatal. She's not going to risk that, not to assuage an irrational need. She's been shoving it down for weeks – and spending a lot more time cleaning her gun and working out at the gym – but she knows she's fraying.

And she hates herself for it.

She flips over in bed for the millionth time with a sigh. She hasn't been sleeping properly either and the idea of not being able to sleep because Callen's not there drives her nuts. She's not a dependent person. She's forced herself to be independent which means she should totally be able to sleep just fine while Callen's out on an op.

What it does mean, however, is that she's awake when she hears the quiet 'snick' of the lock in her door. She's got her hand on her gun in a second, sliding the weapon to the edge of her pillow. There is definitely someone in her apartment. Someone courteous enough to close the door. And lock it again.

Damnit. If she has to run she doesn't want to smash a window to do it.

But then the air shifts around her and she relaxes.

Completely.

"You're not supposed to be here."

He says nothing, just steps to the bed. She hears a jacket hit the floor and him dealing with his shoes before the bed dips behind her. There's still shifting and it takes her a confused minute to realize he's dealing with his socks.

When she turns, he's there, looking at her with intense eyes.

"I couldn't stay away."

Oh.

Oh.

She bites down on her lip and thanks the darkness that's likely hiding her blush. It's so girly to feel the warmth that infuses her bloodstream because he's here, because he couldn't stay away. She watches him as he slips under the covers.

"This could be dangerous," she says, even as she reaches out for him. "For both of us."

"Kens," he says as he tugs on her hand, forcing her to shuffle close. "Shut the hell up."

When his mouth takes hers she responds immediately with all of her pent up concern and worry. All of the angst, the agonizing… And how can she really be mad at him? He's here, isn't he? When he totally shouldn't be and that's giving her something. She needs to give back. She does with her mouth, with her body, with everything she has at her disposal.

She slides her hand down his side, along the waistband of his pants. Button and zipper are dealt with in record time and she's slipping them over his hips. There's a part of her, the preservational agent, that wants to get her out of her apartment as fast as possible, knowing that the faster he leaves the less likely he is to get caught and put them both in danger. But after she's removed his pants, he grips her wrists, wraps her arms around his neck and pulls her flush to his body.

"Callen," she says against his mouth. "You need to go."

He gets it, like she knew he would. She's not kicking him out, she's worried about him, worried about him doing something so uncharacteristically reckless and stupid. So instead of parting from her, he pulls her closer, sliding his hand lower and lower until it slips beneath the boxers she wears. She's bare beneath them so it's no real surprise when his fingers find her easily but she gasps into his mouth regardless. His touch is sure, like it should be by now, but gentle because this is entirely unexpected. He takes his time working her, rubbing around, using her own moisture as it spills out to increase pressure. She's a slave to the sensations he evokes in her, she always is and lets go of his neck to slide her hands beneath his shirt.

He releases her to sit up, to remove the rest of their clothing quickly. She moves to straddle him, but he knocks her to the bed, turning and shifting her until they're on their sides again, facing each other.

It's an entirely new form of intimacy.

Sure, they've shared eye contact during sex, but there's something about this that's more intense. Maybe it's the look in his eyes, maybe it's the illicit feeling of the moment, the knowledge that he shouldn't be here, that she shouldn't be letting him stay, but there's an underlying electricity that makes her burn hotter. He's not immune to it either because he's panting into their every kiss and there's a desperateness just under his gentle touch.

"G," she whispers against his mouth as his fingers delve between her thighs again, pushing her higher and higher, keeping her on the brink of climax. "Jackass."

He chuckles, low and dark and raspy and just the way she likes it. It's almost enough to send her over, but he slides his fingers out of her folds and down her outer thigh. He hikes the limb around his hip, sliding her other leg between his. It takes some maneuvering, but when he finally slides in her it's magic. She pushes her hips forward, grinding against him and cannot believe the way his eyes flutter.

Not that she's faring much better.

The grinding is sending her higher until she shatters around him. His mouth is on her neck and he's still to let her come down from that high before moving in earnest. It's not really a thrust, it's the same circular grinding that she'd started and she feels her breath back up in her lungs. His mouth is still moving on her neck, her ear, her cheek, her shoulder, whatever he can reach until she wraps her fingers around his ears and tugs his mouth to hers.

Pleasure and heat rise between them, the fine sheen of sweat coating their bodies as they push each other towards climax. She's now used to getting more than one when they're together, but this one sneaks up on her. She almost literally chokes on air as it sweeps her away, digging her nails into his shoulders. When she comes back to herself he's still hard inside her, still moving and she drags her nails gently down his back. She gets a response she didn't expect when he arches into his climax.

They fall asleep entwined like that.

Hours later, Kensi wakes, thirsty, sticky and they end up meeting again in the shower. He takes a few more minutes – it's been a long time since he's been able to have a real one, rather than an eight minute Marine shower – and it gives her enough time to slide her own version of his white rose into his jeans' pocket.

He finds it a week later, still deep undercover, as he's clearing out his pockets for laundry.

Come home soon.

When he does, three weeks after discovering her 'rose', he finds her in his house, back to him as stands at the kitchen counter. He can't help himself. He's behind her in an instant, spinning and lifting and she's laughing as she wraps her arms around his neck. It's domestic and right and her eyes are so relieved to see him again.

She leans in, kisses him, knowing that while he may have taken the first symbolic step with the rose, she's about to take a bigger one with words. Still, she makes sure she meets those intense blues before she speaks. She needs him to see as much as she needs him to hear.

"Welcome home."


	8. The Pleasure in Distraction

Kensi's a big reader.

It's one of those things the team's aware of in a passive sense. She reads enough that she is speedier when it comes to reading through reports and information and she does it with a surprising thoroughness.

But it isn't until he actually sees her reading a book that he realizes how sexy it is.

She's intense when she's reading and she knows it. She gets lost in fantasylands and she loves every second. It makes her happy because it's someone else playing a role, dealing with the issues, battling the villains.

She's not sure when sitting on her couch with him became normal. He cleans his gun every week like clockwork, and that's separate from the times he cleans his gun because he's been forced to actually fire a shot. But while he cleans his gun, she reads, because she knows and trusts her gun to work. She cleans it, she's careful with it, but she's long-ago guessed that he's had enough close calls to make him paranoid. Of course, it could also just be his general paranoia.

It's endearing sometimes, how utterly vigilant he is about safety, but the one thing he does every week is clean his gun. Every Thursday night, whenever he gets home. About a month ago – after his two months undercover - his visits became a more constant ritual so, she guesses, it must have been around a month ago that her sitting there, reading, is normal. After her less subtle welcoming..

Usually she's paying enough passive attention to see when he finishes cleaning the firearm, but the book is just so good. It happens, more often then people normally believe, that she gets lost in other worlds. And that's the only reason she doesn't noticed when he puts his gun back together. Usually, she likes to watch because his hands are so competent and sure, but she has to be paying attention to catch it.

She's not.

He takes advantage.

Well, advantage is a generous word because she actually lets out a sound of displeasure as his fingers stroke across her ankle bone. She kicks at him lightly, sending a glare, but her eyes are glazed from reading, her mind hasn't cleared from the words on the page, so she's completely oblivious to his intentions.

He grins. There's nothing he likes more than distracting her.

His heart actually swells at the thought. Her little note's had him thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking, analyzing and trying to determine what step comes next. He doesn't like the thought of going on without her, without this, without the two of them on her couch on Thursday nights. She's changed him in a lot of ways, pushed him into caring about her more than he probably should, more than he thought he was capable of. As someone who grew up shuffling from foster home to foster home, he hasn't exactly had the most stable examples of relationships.

But with Kensi, that's the only thing it can be.

They still don't really talk about it, and there's a part of him that knows they have to. They can't go on without explicit words, without labels, because as it stands they're both really just going with the flow, wherever the emotions take them. The only problem is that the emotions are taking them serious places which means they have to make sure they're both clear on the consequences. Plain and simple, he can't lose her, won't risk it, so if he's going to, he wants to know.

If he can claim her as his, he wants to know that too.

It's kind of mind-boggling actually, because he's so broken. Yeah, so is she, because to do the work they do, to toe the line between morality and immorality in the name of the law takes some twisted pieces. But he's so broken that there is a part of him in absolute awe that she's here with him, wants to be here with him. She knows she's got her own insecurities about what they're doing, how far they've come, how deep this goes, but out of the two of them, he's the one people are going to be questioning.

His fingers trail further up her leg, feather light. She twitches again, the muscles tensing and releasing beneath his hand and he smiles to himself. By this point, he knows what he does to her, knows what touches make her twitch, moan, writhe, scream. This is slow seduction because he wants to shock a response out of her. He wants her to be almost desperate by the time she realizes what's going on.

He can do it too, Callen knows. He knows the focus on her face, knows she's so deep in the story now that it's not only going to take time to get her out of the book but to get her mind to clear, her brain to work and thus, for her to realize exactly what's going on. He strokes the back of her knee and sees a flicker in her eyes. It goes as quickly as it streaks through though because her eyes are moving rapidly across the page. Then he slides his hand away.

She looks up for a moment when he shuffles over, when he slides her legs over his lap, but then it's straight back to the book, right back to almost pretending he doesn't exist. Good. That's exactly what he wants. Lull her into a false sense of security with innocence he doesn't possess. There's nothing innocent about what he's thinking. Kensi's focus is almost as legendary as her ability to slide seamlessly into a role and he's going to take advantage of it.

Because by the time he's done, he'll have all one-hundred percent of that focus on him and what he can do to her.

How hot he can make her.

She's wearing sweat pants, yoga pants, whatever. They're black, they're tight and they're thin enough that he knows she can feel his fingers. At least her nerve endings can. Callen smirks when her legs widen at the touch of his fingers on the outside of her thigh, takes his time moving them inward, paying attention to her breathing and her trembling skin for the exact moment. He slides his fingers between her legs when the moment hits and she jerks, her head coming up as her back bows.

She's hotter than he thought.

He grins as he watches her eyes try to focus, her brain try and process what's going on. He doesn't let up though, just pushes, pushes, pushes until her hands drop, her eyes close and he hears the dull 'thud' of the book hitting the floor.

He's got her attention now, that's for sure.

She chokes on a moan, stutters out a gasp, then shatters with the careful press and rub of his fingers against her center.

He chuckles as she relaxes, stroking his hands up and down her calves now. Soothing.

It doesn't help though because her eyes are blazing when they open and meet his. She dives for him and he has a split second to catch her, steady her, before she's straddling his lap, her mouth at his ear.

"You made me lose my page."

He laughs as his lips dance over her neck making her shiver. "I thought it was time for a… distraction."

She moans into his ear and he shifts, falling back across the cushions of her couch so she's still on top of him. His hand slides under her tank top, brushing up and down her spine, letting her take control of the kiss. She slows the kiss and sighs before pulling away. "How do you do this to me?"

He blinks, but his hand doesn't stop on her back. She can't honestly be thinking of having this conversation, let alone having it now, when the whole length of her is pressed against him. He's in no place to be having a conversation of the magnitude she wants.

"I didn't know my ankle was an erogenous zone," she whispers, sliding her tongue just behind his earlobe. His hips jerk against hers as his hands tighten on her hipbones. What he does is nothing compared to what she does to him.

"And the back of my knee?" She shudders, actually shudders, and his breath is coming faster and faster in his lungs. "God, G, the minute you touched me…"

He's going to do it again. Right now. He shifts his hips, hitting her just right because she gasps against his mouth and her eyes flutter closed. He takes her mouth in a thorough kiss as he pushes her against the hard length of him. The layers of clothing don't seem to matter because she's mewling, shifting and he's holding her hips to keep her from moving away from the delicious friction. When her body jerks, loses rhythm, he slows the movement, holds her arching body still just on the edge of orgasm number two. She pants down at him and he sees in her eyes that there is nothing in the world right now but this. But them.

This is what he wants, even if he doesn't think he deserves it.

She takes the opportunity to reach for his shirt, a t-shirt he's left here often enough that it doesn't even smell like him when he puts it on. It smells like her, like her detergent and softener and Kensi. Maybe that's the reason he was so gung-ho to jump her bones.

It doesn't matter though when her shirt goes the same way as his, her front-clasp bra following. She's tossing clothes here, there and everywhere, trying to get to heated skin and she lets out a sound of satisfaction when she can get her hands on his chest. Her fingers dance between his scars endlessly amused by the play of sensitive skin and scar tissue. He doesn't feel her every touch, but it's like torture, the split second his fingers ghost over the bullet wounds. He lets her take her time getting to the band of his sweats – it's another piece of clothing that's somehow migrated to her place and that is definitely something he's going to avoid talking about for a lot longer – and he lifts with her so she can slide them over his hips.

He's not wearing boxes, so she takes him in her hand when she frees him, licking her lips.

Oh Jesus.

She applies mouth, tongue and fingers to the task in front of him, taking one broad lick up his shaft, making sure her tongue presses just under the ridge, before sliding her mouth over him completely. She knows the minute he just lets himself feel because his hand wraps in her hair, guiding her deliriously. She sees the signs in his body, the tensing of his fingers and takes a page from his book, slowing her movements. This time, it's his eyes that are glazed as he looks down at her, part of him actually pleading. She moves up, pressing kisses in a line as she goes, pulling the hand from his hair to slide his fingers just under the edge of her elastic waistband.

He takes the hint, working with her to shimmy them down her hips until he can catch a foot in the crotch and push them down completely. Her panties have gone with them and they lay naked, necking, aware of the heat and press and friction… He slides his hands into her hair to pull her back, to take her in absorb the feeling of her above and over him. She allows it, though only really long enough to reach for his steel length. She takes her time sinking onto him, moving with him, working together to find that right rhythm. It's slow and languid this time, neither of them rushing, taking pleasure in each other.

His hand is first, starting by cupping a breast, tweaking at her stiff nipple before trailing down the center of her body. He turns it as he reaches her belly button, deliving his middle finger between her curls. She jerks when he finds her, then begins moving in earnest, taking them away from slow into a heated slide that makes him want to lose his mind.

She does that to him.

It never ceases to shock him.

But it's an invisible shock now, one he'd thought he'd get used to feeling. The awe might be on his face, the surprise at her response is not. She leans her head forward, hands braced on his pecs and he starts thrusting in time with her, pushing her higher and higher before watching her fall over that edge. She collapses against him and takes a few minutes to recover her faculties before pushing herself up again. This time, her grin is entirely sultry as she picks up a rhythm so much faster than their previous one. She leans down when she does, applying her mouth to his neck, rougher than usual. His body likes it and his thrusts become less and less rhythmic and more and more sporadic.

"Come on, G," she whispers hotly in his ear. "Come."

And good God, he does.

His vision blurs as he strains against her, pressing his hand hard to her lower back to keep her in place. She doesn't seem to mind in the slightest and lets him ride the wave. When he comes back to himself she's drawing random patters on the shoulder her head isn't resting on, dozing in and out of wakefulness. He sighs, completely and utterly unwilling to move. Instead, he reaches back for the afghan over the couch, draping it over their naked, cooling skin.

"S'your go-bag here?"

Change of clothes, toiletries, things they need if they get caught up in a case. They can't always steal the costumes from Hetty's proverbial closet.

"No," he admits lazily. Shit. That means he has to get up early. Not that he sleeps much, just that the endorphins and emotions rattling through him make the idea absolutely abhorrent. He sighs and reaches out and she mewls, tightening her hold on him. He chuckles, smoothing a hand down her back to calm her. "Phone," he tells her. "Need to set my alarm."

"Good," she sighs back, settling tighter against him. "Don't want you to go. Stay."

"I'll stay," he answers.

Her eyelids are fluttering. She's already half-asleep. Still, she says, "You should just leave stuff here."

He freezes, knows what that is, and looks down. She's still got her eyes closed, and there's nothing pretend about the smooth lines of her face. "Kensi."

There must be something in his voice because she forces her eyes open. "What is it?"

"You said I should leave stuff here."

She blinks, blushes, and he can see the insecurity rising up. "Oh."

Callen thinks for a minute, watching her slight embarrassment. "Did you mean to say it?"

"Huh?"

"You're half asleep," he explains and though he should be too the implications are racing through his body and despite the hormones, are suddenly keeping him revved. "Did you mean to tell me to leave stuff here?"

Her eyes take a few seconds to clear, a few seconds to take in, absorb, process and he waits. It takes patience he doesn't really feel like he has. Finally, she lifts a hand, sliding it under her chin so the bone doesn't dig into his chest. But she doesn't move.

"You've already got a pair of sweats and a couple of t-shirts here."

"You've stolen a couple of t-shirts," he shoots back and can't help the twitch of his lips when she blushes.

She watches him for a moment, waiting, and when his eyes meet hers, his hand sliding through the hair just above her ear, she sees the want there. She wonders if he knows how much he's giving away, wonders if it's something he's giving to her and her alone. "I want you to stay," she says softly. "You shouldn't have to get up early to go change."

She wants him to stay. The words reverberate in his brain, make him think of lazy Sunday mornings he's never had, the terrifying notion that she wants those too. Morning coffee, breakfast, the paper… And it's not like he doesn't already have a key. The team exchanged them long ago for emergencies, and he's been using his for things other than that. Though sometimes he wonders if how much he wants her counts as an emergency.

"I could probably bring a bag next time."

The smile that blossoms over her face is worth the fear in his gut. She kisses him soundly, and he gives back every emotion she's pouring into it. Then she's pushing herself up and holding out her hand.

"Come on," she says softly, and there's so much affection and emotion in her voice that his chest tightens. "Let's go to bed."

In the morning, he wakes in his sweats with her curled up against him in his discarded shirt – he remembers a very hot three am shower – and actually smiles. He wants this, he realizes with startling clarity. He likes this feeling.

He pulls another one of his t-shirts, one of the stolen ones, off of the clean laundry pile on her dresser, and with a gentle kiss to her forehead, cheeks, lips, heads home. He beats her into the office, though it's no surprise, but she sees the extra black bag under her desk when she slides her chair out to sit. When Eric calls them up for a case, they hang back, allowing Sam and Deeks to bicker their way up the stairs first.

"Are you coming with the bag?" she murmurs over her shoulder as he climbs behind her, just slightly closer than he should be. She's not sure it would matter though, with the volume Deeks is using to try and convince Sam he once jumped off a twelve story building onto an awning to get away from a drug dealer.

"Is that an invitation?" he murmurs back, watching the little hairs on her neck bristle into goosebumps.

She stops him with a brief hand on her arm, just outside of ops. "It's always an invitation."

Then she saunters into the room and he shakes his head as he follows. He's leaving a bag at her place. He's going to stay the night more often.

All of this out of his simple need to distract her from a book.

This is his new reality and much to his own surprise, he finds he really, really likes it.


	9. The Beginning of Christmas

Kensi doesn't hate Christmas. Okay, sure, it's not her favourite holiday, but she doesn't boycott it and turn in to the Grinch. Especially not the way her team celebrates. Decorating a palm tree still seems inherently blasphemous, but it's one of the things that makes Christmas easier to celebrate.

The team knows now why Christmas sucks. It's not the first time any of them have revealed something so personal for a case. But it doesn't overshadow the entire holiday. She's long ago learned how to separate Jack's departure and the holiday season. Plus, she doesn't like being the one to drag everyone's spirits down.

More importantly, she thinks maybe she's really ready to celebrate.

So when the team starts tossing around ideas for Christmas, she offers her apartment as Party Central. It snowballs from there.

Hetty gives them the afternoon off to decorate Kensi's place. An hour later, Sam and Callen show up at her door with a palm tree that brushes her ceiling. Sam's brought leftover lights from his place and Kensi lovingly pulls her own ornaments out for the first time in almost a decade. Both of the men recognize the significance and while Sam's squeezing her shoulder, Callen's got his eyes locked on hers, warm with meaning.

They're interrupted when Deeks knocks, bringing eggnog and that stupid fireplace DVD. Nell and Eric aren't far behind – and yes, of course the team takes more than a few minutes to rib them about their simultaneous arrival – bringing more general decorations. By the time they finish it looks little like Santa's Village threw up in Kensi's living room. Hetty, it seems, is bringing food.

They have an obviously good time, if the disaster of her living room is anything to go by. Eventually, though, they start clearing out. Hetty first, just after Nell and Eric get caught under the mistletoe for the fourth time. They're the next ones to leave, Nell clinging to Eric because she and Deeks had an eggnog shooting contest and while she whooped his ass, she's now more than a little intoxicated. Sam leaves after that, claiming his delivery of the palm excepts him from clean up. She walks Deeks to the door half an hour later.

"You sure you don't need help?" he asks, charming grin on his face. But Kensi's entirely immune to it by this point.

"I'm sure," she replies. It's not like she's going to be cleaning up on her own anyway.

Then Deeks surprises her, darting in to press a kiss to her cheek. "Mistletoe," he says and she completely misses the look he shoots Callen over her shoulder. To her, he offers a wink and by the time she gets over the fact that Deeks just kissed her cheek and that Deeks just kissed her cheek, he's already half way down her front walk.

She shakes her head affectionately as she closes the door and feels Callen's hands at her hips.

"He knows," Callen says, then presses his mouth to hers. She smiles into the kiss.

"He does not," she denies as he pushes her back against the door. It's gentle though and there's only an undercurrent of possession, the type that speaks to knowing that Kensi's merely flattered and entertained by Deeks' balls. She's not going anywhere.

"He does," Callen shoots back, his hand slipping from her hip to turn the lock on the door. His hand comes back to her hip, sliding his thumb beneath her blouse to touch her skin. "He was challenging me."

She laughs into their next kiss, one hand coming up to palm his cheek. She's not really romantic by nature, but sometimes it wells up in her and she can't help herself. "It's Deeks."

"Trust me," he murmurs against her mouth. "Deeks knows." It's a guy thing, he thinks. He knows the look Kensi's partner shot him. He lets the thought slide out of his head in the face of the moment of her mouth under his. He tugs her back, aiming for her bedroom. She stops them in front of the Christmas palm, slipping out of his hands.

She's smiling, a secretive tilt of her lips. She's letting that smile play around her mouth, full of mysteries. She has reason to be playing coy. It's the first time she's hidden a surprise for him beneath the green satin of her blouse and black jeans. It's the first time in a long time she's deliberately bought lingerie specifically as a surprise for a guy when he strips her down. She has a drawer of go-tos, but not something newly bought for this specific purpose.

Callen watches her as her fingers trail up the buttons on the front of her blouse. He can tell she's in a really playful mood, probably because they've had a really good night with friends. Honestly, he's really glad for it. He know Christmas is not the easiest of holidays for her.

He's shocked by the surge of anger and jealousy that wells up in him at the thought. She has a difficult time at Christmas because her fiancée ran out on her. On Kensi. At this point… Callen can't believe it. He cannot fathom walking away, especially since he's so damaged and yet she's here with him. She chooses to be here. He knows he's in deep with her. Really deep.

His eyes go to her fingers, to the slow release of buttons, the way each disk slides through each hole in the blouse. There's no doubt he wants her. Being in a social situation with her, without anything to distract him, is begging him to make a move. And the mistletoe?

He sees the red in between her breasts first as his fingers itch to help her with the buttons. Instead, he stalks towards her, raising his hands to rest over hers when she reaches up to slide the blouse from her shoulders. Their eyes lock as they slide the shirt down together. His hands fall to her waist, sliding up to brush against he lace of her bra. His thumbs slide in, brushing her underwire and the delicate skin beneath. Her chest expands and contracts with the touch, her fingertips coming up to brush against his chest.

"Shirt," she says quietly. Then she steps away. Callen's hands fly to the buttons of his shirt, surprisingly steady considering the fact that he's watching a half-naked woman – his half-naked woman – back away. He figures it out when she flicks off the overhead light. There's a beam coming from the kitchen, but otherwise the room is only illuminated by the Christmas palm and the fireplace still playing on the TV.

Then she's back in front of him, sliding her palms over his shoulders and taking his undone shirt downwith her as her fingers trail over his arms. He slides his back around her waist again, pulling her against him. She initiates the next kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing against him, skin to skin. He lets his fingers drift, lets them brush against lace, teasing at her bra straps and clasp before deciding to deal with her jeans. She shivers as the back of his fingers brush the skin under her belly button. His fingers grasp the open sides of her jeans when he tugs down her zipper, but she doesn't budge.

"Here," she says, wrapping her arms tighter. She smiles when his eyes widen and presses her mouth to his neck. She follows his neck to his shoulder, then down his chest. His hands tangle in her hair as she slips to her knees. Her lips continue down over his stomach, her fingers quick with his belt and pant fastenings. She tugs them and his boxers down far enough to slide her mouth over him. He groans, but lets her play. His hands are just there to give himself an anchor. She fights him when he tries to pull her away, intensifying her efforts.

"Kens-i!" He chokes on the last syllable as she slides him further down her throat than he ever remembers being. God, if she keeps this up….

Fuck!

She wants to smile because the feel of him spilling in her mouth is such a thrill. He falls to his knees, shocked and pleasantly surprised, cupping her face. He's not totally sure how he feels about tasting himself in her kiss, but it's the only way he can think to express what's going through his mind. She never takes it that far.

She slides to her ass and then starts to lean back, pulling him along with her, her hands against his cheeks. He supports himself with his knees and an arm as he uses the other hand, splayed against the bottom of her spine, to control her descent. She kisses him until she's lying back on the carpet. She shifts for comfort and when she settles he heads down her neck.

He pulls back when he hits her collarbone, tugging her jeans down her long legs. He stops to pull her socks off too, leaving her in the red lace bra-and-boyshort set she picked out with him in mind. He takes her in, the long lines of her, the red lace. He starts his fingertips at her knees, trails them up over her underwear. They trail along the lower edge of her bra and she arches her back so he can get at the clasp. He leans down to kiss her as they work together to slide the bra from her shoulders.

When he pulls away, he doesn't carefully and gently trail kisses down her neck and chest. Instead, he makes her choke on air when his mouth envelops a nipple. His tongue swipes over the pebbled tip. He sucks and her back bows in earnest. He waits until she actually whimpers then switches to the other at the same time he slides a knee between her thighs and puts pressure against her center.

"Callen," she moans, pushing against his leg in earnest, rocking her hips. His mouth stays active on her breast and nipple as he slides his hand inward. She's wet and hot through the lace and he knows her now, well enough to know exactly what buttons to press. She moves with his hand, against his hand, until he holds her hips down. He sends her over the edge in seconds, feeling her bow up against him, her hands clasping his head.

And releases the hottest sigh as she floats down.

She kisses him slowly when her breathing slows, feeling him semi-hard against her hip. She flips them and stands, unselfconsciously sliding her soaked panties down her legs and dropping them on top of her jeans. His eyes are that beautiful shade of cobalt she loves and –

Wait.

Loves?

Huh.

She covers her moment of shock at that thought by stretching, catlike, raising to her toes, gloriously naked. Then she arches an eyebrow at him and the self-satisfied smirk on his face. "Coming?"

She doesn't give him time to answer, just heads towards her bedroom, and the bathroom beyond. The bathroom is just steaming when she feels him come in, slide up behind her. He's naked now as he nudges her into the hot water. She turns with a happy smile, leaning into his kiss.

"In front of a Christmas palm tree?" he questions, getting his hands tangled in her half-damp hair.

She steps beneath the spray to soak the dark locks as his hand slide around her waist. His lips press against her throat. "I've been thinking."

"Mmhmm."

But she tugs on his head instead of just answering. There's something soft in her eyes. "I was thinking, maybe, we could celebrate Christmas."

He doesn't pretend to misunderstand her and there is a part of him that floods with warmth and honour. She wants to celebrate Christmas with him, a holiday neither of them are particularly fond of. She's hopeful, but not nervous about his lack of answer and she responds when he leans in for a kiss. The significance isn't lost on him.

She doesn't seem particularly offended when she hikes her leg around his waist instead of answering.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Turkey sandwiches," she suggests, even as her breath hitches with the first hot thrust. "Maybe a movie."

Nothing overly or overtly commercial or 'family-like'. A quiet night in, like they do so often. He adjusts the angle with his hands on her ass and leans his head against her shoulder as he tries to focus as much on her question as how hot, wet and tight she is around him.

"The Christmas palm." The last syllable ends with a gasp on a particularly rough thrust. He laughs against her shoulder and sets up a rhythm in earnest. Christmas. Christmas with her, with them, with this. She groans when he hitches her leg higher around his waist.

Yeah, he thinks to himself when she cries out her second release. He could do Christmas again. With her.

He follows her over, panting against his shoulder and they stay entwined like that until they catch their breath. He cleans her with gentle hands and she returns the favour. They towel off and he pulls on a pair of sweatpants from the drawer she cleared out for him while she goes to the living room to get his button down. Though they both know they'll roll away from each other in the night, he wraps her up against him as she cuddles close.

Then, just as her body starts relaxing, as she starts to doze off, he whispers. "Let's celebrate Christmas."


	10. The Leap to Always

When Callen paws through his closet, he realizes one thing: Kensi's migrating.

It's not conscious; he knows that. He's got a handful of his own things at her apartment. He hasn't really thought anything of the fact that she's got blouses here, dresses, jeans, a couple of other pairs of pants. Lounge clothes, even though she tends to steal his.

He ponders that for a moment. He doesn't really have time because they're going to be late to work – no surprise, she's freaking distracting all sleep rumpled in the morning – but he's going to do it anyway. The fact that Kensi's things are in his house, the fact that half of her closet is here and it's unconsciously inching towards more puts him on edge. Only the unconscious part comforts him.

See, he knows Kensi wouldn't just move herself in, but looking at the amount of things she's got lying around his house, he knows practicality says it's stupid. After all, it's not like either of them goes home alone anymore. Separately, yes, but there's always someone else at the end destination. Practically, there's no reason for her to be paying rent on an apartment when he owns a bloody house.

The problem is, if he can even really call it a problem since his heart isn't leaping into his throat at the prospect, is even the idea of moving in says permanence. A future. A future he's chosen never to try and find. Until, apparently, it slapped him up the side of the head. He hadn't meant to follow her to that dark little room of the hacienda the first time. It had just happened, and now he's here, she's here, they're here and it's both exhilarating and insane, even though they celebrated Christmas together. Quietly, but together, and he's not blind enough to ignore the symbolism of celebrating like that. Celebrating a holiday neither of them is particularly fond of.

Was fond of.

Whatever.

Water under the bridge now.

They do tend to like his place better. Maybe because Kensi sees a house and she has the past to relate a house to 'home' to 'future' to 'family'. To 'belonging', really. He doesn't have that kind of emotional connection to fall back on. He doesn't care, he knows his house and her apartment in light or dark, so he's pretty sure nothing will ever happen to either of them, but they do end up at his place more than hers. The first time something got left here he didn't notice until he did laundry.

And he'd put it away in the drawers of the dresser Sam finally pressured him into buying.

He follows the sound of the shower and the off-key singing into his bathroom. She's absorbed in the warmth, but he knows she won't be much longer. And he knows if he gets in there with her they're going to be really late.

She doesn't jump when she steps out, just raises an eyebrow in question.

"Three-quarters of your closet is here."

Her eyes meet his as she wraps a towel around herself. "You're kidding."

He wants something off-hand, nonchalant, but can't find it. All he can do is offer her a shrug.

"No way."

She doesn't check though. She trusts that he knows that, that he's done the research. There's a tinge of panic in her eyes, just the corner. Yeah, she hadn't known it was happening either. But she's not pushing past him to check. Huh.

Except with her eyes glazed and her body wrapped in only a towel – still wet too, with droplets clinging to her shoulders – he can't help himself.

He's asked himself a million times why he wants her. What is it about her that keeps him coming back for more, that keeps him leaning into her, that makes him catch her hips, lick at the water droplets on her skin. He's never found an answer, but he's not really sure he has to either. He does the same to her, if the catch in her breath is any indication. He presses gentle kisses up her neck, skimming across her jaw to her mouth.

"It's impractical to keep paying rent on your apartment if half of your closet is here."

God, did those words really come out of his mouth?

Considering the way she tenses – surprise, not fear, interestingly enough – they definitely did. He said that out loud.

And she's not running for the hills.

Neither is he.

How deep are they?

Well, he knows there's more of her stuff here than at her apartment. He knows that more of his stuff is in his own home too. He's got a kitchen table now, because Kensi gave him crap over having too many picnics on the floor of his living room, and regularly has perishable food in the fridge. Even the Take Out Queen cooks sometimes. He's been debating a couch and a TV, another practicality he knows will be dealt with if…

Wow. He's actually kind of asking her to move in.

His mouth follows her collarbone almost absently, at least until she arches.

"G, we'll be late."

Yeah, he doesn't care. He's kind of about to ask her to move in.

Holy shit.

His fingers trace along the line of the towel, sliding under the feminine fingers that are holding it up. He's showered and dressed, but for this… Nope. Not an inkling of care about the likelihood they'll be walking in late. Together.

"You have a couch and a TV and a coffee table," he says, dislodging the towel so it falls to the floor. Her chest is rising and falling, her breath fast. The bathroom's still steamy, even though the door's open and has been since he got out of the shower, and her skin is damp under his fingers. "Sam's been giving me crap about not having any useable furniture."

Her breath hitches. "No use in buying one when we're splitting time between our places."

"Except we're not splitting our time," he argues, unsure of where his resolve is coming from. The arguments too. It's not like he's planned this. Then again, how many ops does he run flying by the seat of his pants? "We're usually here."

Her hands come up to cup his head, one sliding down the back of his neck until she can tuck the tips of her fingers beneath the collar of his shirt. He's got a sensitive spot, just under the vertebrae… There. He shivers and brings his mouth back to hers. Her next words are mumbled against his lips. "We had Christmas at my place."

"With the team because you have the couch and the TV," he points out. "It was cramped."

"G," she says on a sigh, though not one of negative emotion, lifting his head with her hands curled around his ears because he's gone back to her jaw, her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone. "Are you asking me to move in?"

He pauses, thinks, blinks. Then, "Yes."

A thrill passes through him, both exhilaration and fear. Seriously? He just did that? She looks just as shocked, surprised, floored and he swallows convulsively. He knows they're thinking the same thing. How did they get here? How did they go from believing this was impossible to moving in together?

Her mouth opens and closes a few times. He can't blame her. He's honestly as floored that he answered her in the affirmative as she is. But then there's excitement in her eyes, a jump, a leap of faith in her face and in the way her arms wrap around his neck.

"Yes."

It's a breathy agreement, accompanied by a brilliant smile and he's absolutely stunned. How he manages to catch her when she literally jumps and wraps her legs around him, he has no idea. He does stumble the few steps to the counter, turning in the process and managing to deposit her on the flat surface. There's nothing there, no clutter like her bathroom because he can't tolerate it, even if he has to clean up after her every step of the way. She's plastered against him, naked skin to cotton and denim, but by the time he figures out what's going on, she's already got her fingers under his shirt. Her nails scratch a little as she desperately tries to rid him of the barrier until he finally bats her hands away and yanks it over his head himself.

They're going to be so late.

Sam and Deeks are going to rib them for weeks over this.

But hell she's moving in.

Even he can't be all that upset about celebrating.

Which, in itself, is odd, he thinks abstractly, somewhere in the back corner of his brain. The tiny part that's not absorbed by the woman already dealing with his belt and jeans. She shoves them down with his boxers quickly until he manages to catch her wrists. He holds them to the counter with unrelenting strength, even as she tries to slide them out from beneath his palms.

"We're going to be late," she reminds him, even as a smile lights her features from the inside out. She wants to move in, even if it's something that's only vaguely crossed her mind. God, their relationship is full of surprises.

But still, he doesn't want to rush. Quick, okay, but rush? When he's got her sitting naked on the counter?

He slides his hands to her thighs, deliberate in the push and release of his fingers, the ghosting touch of his thumbs on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She arches and his eyebrows rise. It's kind of funny that he's always shocked at how quickly he gets to her. He's always known he's held sway, but never like this. Nothing like this.

Nothing's ever like this.

She is hot, slick, but he presses his thumb to her regardless. Some of it is leftover from their earlier coupling, residual arousal she confessed to him once because her mind's a steel trap. She can still feel him, she says, until she finds something else to distract herself and considering her thing about steamy showers, he knows they don't help. He can't complain. She's hot as hell and he's pretty much always on edge around her too. He is very glad it's mutual.

His hands slide around her waist and she mewls at the removal of his fingers from her center. But he's slipping his hands beneath her ass, lifting just slightly and she's with him one hundred percent, eyes sparking with knowledge. She lifts, linking her ankles to hold herself to him and peppering kisses where her mouth can reach as he makes the journey to the bed. He surprises her when he turns them so she's on top when they fall to the mattress, but takes advantage. She doesn't hesitate.

She kisses him, hot and dirty as she slides a hand down his chest. She positions him against her and slides down, a breath releasing as she does. It's a sigh he hears often, but it's one that never ceases to hit him in the gut. It sounds like pleasure and home all at once, like there's no place she'd rather be.

She doesn't start with a slow pace, but a relatively quick one. They don't have a lot of time, after all, and he knows how close she is by the shiver that drills down her spine when his thumb brushes over the sensitive spot at her hip. He lets her control the pace because her moans, sighs, whimpers, are driving him higher and higher with each slick slide. His peak catches him off guard but he rolls with it, feeling her topple not long after.

She collapses and he stares almost in shock at the ceiling.

She's moving in.

They're moving in together.

They're going to live together.

"You know," she says, her head against his shoulder now as their breathing calms. "This means we're going to have to talk to Hetty."

But Hetty knows - of course - and she has to disapprove on principle - of course – but Callen knows Hetty well enough to see the approval there. The happiness.

It doesn't get them off the hook for being late.


	11. The Life in Love

They came too close today.

Well, that's a lot of days, and sometimes Callen thinks about hanging up his credentials if only because the adrenaline burst, the danger, is going to kill him one day. He's not that suicidal. Then it goes away, lost behind the thrill of the takedown, the brilliance of the win, and the camaraderie afterwards.

But this time…

This time he's really, seriously, honest-to-God, considering it.

It's a little baffling, actually. He has no idea what was different today than any other day that they come face to face with death and walk away. It started in a club, as these God-forsaken takedowns usually do, with Kensi in a short skirt, pressed up against his front. The next thing he remembers is following her and their target into a back alley. There's a blur of Kensi being tugged away, almost tripping on her heels, and the next clear memory he has is of the barrel of their target's gun pressed to her temple while his nose trails up her cheek.

Oh.

Huh.

He's no stranger to possession when it comes to Kensi. He's not really a jealous man by nature – curious, yes, and that's why he'd wanted to know the parentage of that little blond boy over a year ago – and Kensi's a beautiful woman. It's not like she doesn't get hit on constantly and since they're not exactly broadcasting their change in relationship status he's not going to burst their bubble by making a scene. But it does explain at least a piece of his reaction to this takedown.

She is different.

They are different.

"Hey, G?"

He blinks out of his thoughts, looking over to find her eyes dark, a little troubled. They're home – she drove, she seemed more stable than him and really, actually hadn't given him a choice – and it takes him a minute to push open the door. Then she climbs out the other side and they head up the walk together.

He crowds her at the door, barely giving her enough room to slip the key in the lock. She's still wearing the dress – it's something from the back of her closet rather than the front of OSP's – and he drops his hand to her exposed thigh. Her breath catches and she looks back at him, slightly taller in the heels. There's a question there, but one hidden by arousal and her own dropping adrenaline levels. She sees it in his face, she knows she does, because with a quick flick of her wrist the door is open and she's letting him push her through.

She turns with surprising grace and balance when they're both through the door, eyes heated. She knows what's coming, knows what this is and he can see something lurking in her eyes, dark, warm, real and terrifying. He kisses her to forget it, too much emotion threading through his own veins to try and puzzle out hers. It's not that he's trying to be rude or neglectful, just that he's more of a doer.

And they've never really done well with the speaking thing anyway.

So he goes with action, palming the back of her head as she kicks off her pumps. The angle is better that way and he delves his tongue into her mouth without really asking permission. Not that she thought of refusing him. Instead, she moans into his kiss up until he breaks it, panting harshly as they rest their foreheads together.

"Go get naked," she whispers to him. "I'll lock up."

He doesn't want to leave her – as if that isn't indicative in itself – but this is their home. He pauses in the doorway to the hall, just for a moment to listen, but it's just them and he continues on his way. He knows she'll check every window and every door. It's become her habit too, to sooth his borderline paranoia. By the time she gets to the bedroom though, he's barely managed to lose anything. He's preoccupied with how close they came, with wanting her, needing her, that his own clothing doesn't seem as important.

"G."

Her voice brings him back, slams him head on into the present, to the woman who is here, who is alive, who didn't take a bullet to the brain today. She pads across the carpet to stand in front of him, her hands moving to his shirt. She leans in and kisses him while she does it, her hands steady as he works the buttons. Her kiss is slow, not exactly what he wants but simultaneously exactly what he needs.

"I'm fine," she says against his mouth as her hands trail back up his chest to slide the shirt from his shoulders. "We're fine."

His hands wrap around her back then, find the zipper to shed her of her own clothing. Her hands are deliberate, brushing against his skin as she deals with his belt and pants. He steps out of them, sliding a hand down her arm to take her hand. She doesn't protest, pressing against him when he pulls, letting him ravage her mouth because it's what he needs. She's in no hurry though and he's surprised to find that he's slowing down with her.

This, he knows, is life-affirming sex, and it's never been like this before. He's not really a veteran of it, by any means, but it's always been fast, brutal. None of this delicate tenderness she's bringing into the mix. Then again, they're different than the 'wham-bam' type. There's nothing anonymous about what they're doing. They're not strangers, they're together, have been for over a year now.

His hands drag up her sides, his callouses against her soft skin and she sighs as his thumbs slide along the underwire of her bra.

"That feels really good, G."

He kisses her slowly, wrapping his arms around her to slide his hands up her spine, play with the clasp of her bra. Her hands aren't idle. They're skimming his back, his shoulders, his ass through his boxers, and he knows what she means. It's just touch, but it serves to send his nerve endings firing.

He breaks their kiss as he loosens her bra, following the straps to slide them down her arms. The garment falls between them as he rubs his lips along her jawline and she lets out a breathy sigh. Then her hands are back, running up his chest until she cups his face. She moves towards him as she initiates their next kiss, walking him backwards. Just as he feels the bed against his knees he turns them, sending her to the bed with a quiet 'oomph'. There's amusement in her eyes and that same dark emotion that heats his stomach pleasantly.

That emotion drives him forward, and he catches himself on his hands seconds before meeting her mouth. He kisses her fiercely, pouring everything he's feeling, everything he can see on her face, everything he realizes she hasn't hidden from him for months now into that kiss. He can feel that emotion bubbling up in him, a ferocity, a heat, a sense of contentment and permanence and home and it hits him like a sledgehammer.

He's in love with her.

It's not a place he ever really thought he'd be. It really hasn't even crossed his mind, but he's not stupid enough not to look back and notice the signs. He doesn't think either of them has been blatant about it, but neither of them is really the type to bare themselves so completely like that. It's not her style – she's been burned too many times – and it certainly isn't his.

But this…

This is them.

He kisses her like he lost her, like this is the last time he's going to have her. She responds, doesn't hold back, wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips. He falls into her and she has to break the kiss to find air again. He brushes his mouth down her neck, over her collarbones, across her jaw until she cups his cheeks and brings his mouth to hers again.

"G," she breathes after a minute. "Touch me. Remind me."

Love me.

He can see it now. It's in her face, in her hands, haunting the back of her eyes, peeking out from behind the arousal echoed in his own blood. He flips them then, because the angle's better to do what she asked.

"Let me see you," he says against her temple and she raises up, pressing tantalizingly against his groin. He groans because she's hot and he knows she's wet. He distracts himself by palming a breast, watching her head fall back, sexy curls cascading behind her while her blunt nails dig into the skin of his sides. He ignores the little bite of pain, focusing on the way she subconsciously shifts, rolling her hips when he takes a nipple between his fingers. She's not being quiet tonight, letting out a little mewl as he works her nipple into a hard peak. He heads to the other one next, sliding the first hand down to draw soft patterns on the lace at her hip. She shivers, squirms because her hips are erogenous zones and the soft scratch of the lace is just as stimulating as his hand on her nipple.

He presses a hand against her back next and she shifts forward on her own so he can take her breast in his mouth. He works her nipple with his tongue, sliding one of his hands down her thigh, up to play against the edge of her panties, teasing and tantalizing. They're both feeling alive at this point, trading emotion and heated arousal in moans and strokes. He palms her ass and guides her up, placing kisses over her belly button as she raises to her knees.

"Oh, God, Callen."

He wants to laugh because she's reverted back to his last name, but he's too fixated on removing her panties, exposing her to his tongue and fingers. She is wet and he slides the pad of his fingers along her slit, swirling moisture around and around as she grips the headboard. He slips one of his fingers inside her without warning and her back arches in encouragement.

"Yes," she moans. "Right there."

He responds. He can't avoid it. He wants to see her break above him, wants to feel her around him and though he gets the benefits of slow, it all evaporates the minute he presses his tongue to her clit. She releases a soft keening noise as he laps at her, and his fingers speed up with a mind of their own. She's over the edge in minutes – he knows her body that well – and she sighs as she slides down his chest.

It takes her a minute to find her bearings again, but she surprises him by wasting no time taking him inside her. He's expecting her to move immediately, to drive them both to the edge, but she settles there, shifting until he bottoms out against her. Then they both moan and his hands go to her hips, ready to lift her.

"No," she says, reaching down to take his hands. He lets her pin them by his head. "My turn."

Well okay then.

He's not an idiot and the idea of Kensi taking control is hot. He nods once and she releases his hands, kissing him again. When she rolls her hips slowly, his hands react, reaching up to press against her lower back and thread into her hair. He does nothing to try and influence her movement, just keeps her pressed against him, hips to mouths. He wants to feel every inch of her.

He needs her.

She pulls back to catch her breath, moving her hands to brace herself on either side of his head. He's lost in her in moments, in the gentle movements of her hips, the darkness of her eyes… everything about her, about them, about the miracle that they're here, together, and they're not burying her in the ground.

"It happens," she whispers, her breath ghosting against his face. "We did everything right, we followed the protocol and we made it out alive."

She changes the angle as she breathes out the last word and they both groan. She lifts her hips this time, pulling off him slowly and sliding back down. Torturous heat envelops him, makes him throw his head back. His Adam's apple bobs as he tries to swallow and Kensi zeros in on it. Lips, tongue, teeth… she's destroying him with the moist heat of her.

"We're here," she says and his eyes fly open – when had they closed? – because she's not much of a talker during sex, but she seems to feel the need to talk to him, tell him, reassure him.

"Kensi," he replies, voice low and gravelly. There's everything in the simple breath of her name, all the fear, the need, the love…

"I know," she answers easily, her hips speeding up. She needs it, he can tell and he responds by anchoring her hips, thrusting up with her every down stroke. She's getting close again, he can feel it. She's been slamming her clit against his pelvis, twisting her hips enough to get some friction and he can tell that it won't take long.

"We're here," he says, echoing her. "We're alive."

"Yeah," she replies breathlessly. "Very alive."

He can't disagree with that. Then she surprises him, flipping them over again, giving control back.

"Callen," she says, eyes fluttering, body arching because he's not moving. "Make me come."

Like he needs to be asked twice.

His thrusts have speed and strength and he balances on one arm so he can slide a thumb down to her clit. She mewls and whines as she gets closer, her body arching, trying to fine more, more, more, more…

Her entire body tenses as he slams his body into hers and she chokes on a cry. He follows her, groaning against her shoulder.

"Kensi, I love you."

They take a few minutes to catch their breath, but it's the most agonizing minutes of his life. He can't believe the words came out, can't believe that he's actually said them. He's never said them in his life, not seriously, not like this. Not with this underlying sense of need and permanence that makes him inexplicably and unacceptably weak.

He rolls off of her and they lay there, side by side, panting. Eventually, she turns and pushes herself up on her elbow.

"Did you mean it?"

She's giving him an out. They can both feel it. But they've been feeling something else for a while now. Callen can see it, and he knows Kensi can. So the question is, did he really want to say it? Did he want to break their bubble, risk that much?

He looked at her, really looked, discarded the shuttering of her eyes because he knows her better. He knows her tells, knows where she hides and he finds his truth after a moment.

"I meant it."

Her entire demeanour shifts then and he watches in shocked surprise as she opens. There's no hiding the joy on her face, the happiness that spreads through her eyes. But there's surprise there too and he realizes she never expected him to say it.

"You knew," he accuses.

"I did," she promises in answer, because she's more aware, more in tune with those kinds of things than he is. "But…"

Yeah, she never expected him to say it. He's a little breathless at the realization and he doesn't like it. Makes him feel like a damned romance hero because his heart's in his throat to make way for the pain threading through his chest. But he's too damned broken to be anyone's hero. There are way too many things wrong with him to happily ever after to be a consideration.

Right?

Yet she's here, Kensi's here, and she's not leaving, not running. She's had plenty of opportunity, too. But she's with him, by his side, sleeping in his bed, shouldering his burdens, fighting his battles.

Because she loves him too.

Her fingers feather over his cheek. "I do, you know," she says as if she's in his head. "I do love you, too."

"Yeah," he answers roughly.

She laughs, just a little. "We're quite a pair. A year into a relationship, after we've moved in together, after I've had a gun held to my temple, and only now are we saying 'I love you'."

He sighs as he kisses her laughter, unable to do anything else under the weight of the joy in her eyes. He has no problem with it really. It's too them to pass up. It's sliding through him too, the vulnerability washed away in the face of reassurance. He's confident now, in this and in them.

"Kens," he finally says, breaking away from her. "Our relationship has never been conventional."

Hell, it started when he walked in fantasizing about him!

She chuckles as she slides closer, burrowing into his warmth. He can feel the edges of sleep pulling him too, a mix of adrenaline low and hormones.

"Maybe so," she says on a yawn. "But it's always been us."

He snorts. "That's corny."

"Shut up," she replies, whacking his chest without strength or heat. She sighs as she settles her head on his shoulder, wrapping an arm about his chest. "I love you, G."

He feels it again, expanding in his chest. It doesn't feel so scary now, doesn't feel like he's stepping out on a delicate precipice. Instead, it feels surprisingly like solid ground. Like home. Like exactly where he wants to be, with her, alive, breathing against him. So, ignoring the cliché, he leans down and says against her hair, "I love you, too."


	12. The Desperation in Deception

When she gets back from her undercover with Deeks, she rounds on Sam first.

"That was a low blow."

He smirks. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Deeks is smirking too, Kensi knows. She shoots his her most withering glare, sees his eyes widen. Yeah dumbass, she thinks to herself, this time, you've gone too far.

Because they really have. She and Callen can take a lot of ribbing, and she knows that Callen trusts her on an op. They've already had that discussion. Nothing comes between them and the job. If it does, it ruins them in the process. That sure as hell does not mean she doesn't have the right to be pissed off.

She's been manipulated. Again. Callen learned his lesson the first time. Maybe it's time for Sam and Deeks to learn too.

"I should send you home to him," she snaps, not caring that she's dumping all of their cards on the table. She's tossing things into her bag, part of her dreading what she's going home to. It was an undercover. He's not going to be mad at her for doing her job. Even if doing her job meant pretending to be married to Deeks. They've been tossing about the idea of coming clean to the team, mostly because knowing and knowing are two very different things.

"So it is true!" Deeks crows triumphantly. "You and Callen are sleeping together."

At least he has the brainpower to lower his voice when he accuses her. Still, it doesn't affect her anger at all. "We've been sleeping together for almost a year, you idiot," she snaps back, trying not to take too much pleasure in the way her eyes widen. Even Sam seems a little surprised.

"A year? No way."

Kensi shoots Deeks another glare. She wants to kill him. She wants to kill them. She hopes their little practical joke has backfired entirely. "A year."

Sam is the first one to change his tune. "We knew at Christmas time."

She rolls her eyes. "Long before Christmas," she responds. "I moved in in February."

Deeks actually drops to a chair then. "Moved… in…?"

"Happy now?" she snaps at them both.

"Hey, Kens, we didn't-"

"But you did," she argues, defensive. They're all entitled to their private lives. Hell, Sam is one of the most private people she knows. He of all people should know how Callen is about these things, if not her too. "You did, Sam."

She knows they haven't irreparably broken anything. That doesn't mean she can't lead them to believe it, that she can't show them how angry she is. She can play the dutiful housewife because that's her job, but they're not just seeing how she was seething beneath it all. The one time, one time, they decide against using Kensi and Callen as a couple to try and get them to explode and it does worse.

"We're a team," she says, venom loud in her voice. "Team members don't manipulate other team members. They don't play team members against each other for the truth. They don't have alternative agendas on the job."

Because that's totally part of it. If they'd done something at a club, while the team was out for drinks, pulled a practical joke outside of ops to get them to admit their relationship, Kensi knows this wouldn't hurt so bad. Instead, it's something entirely different. It's a grating betrayal of trust, an underhanded 'calling out' that's never been part of their team dynamics.

"Would you have told us if we'd asked?"

Kensi sighs, looking up at her on-paper partner. They are good together, she knows that and she doesn't intend to burn bridges here. "Six months ago? No. After Christmas?" She shrugs. "We've gone back and forth about it."

Mostly because talking about it makes it real. Still, after saying 'I love you' out loud, rather than just knowing the emotions exist, makes it real. How much more real can their relationship get after that? They're both tangled up in it now, both emotionally and physically.

She eyes them both as she lifts her bag over her shoulder. "You guys owe Callen… something," she says, unsure herself. She's not sure what kind of man she's going to find at home when she gets there. Because in a way, this is a betrayal to him so much bigger than the one for her. He must have known early on that they were plotting this.

Merits of putting Deeks on the mission aside.

Then she's shaking her head at them. "Night, guys."

She blasts music in the car, hoping some of the tension will leak out of her pores. It doesn't, though, and she doesn't feel much better walking in the front door. She drops her bag with a sigh, locking the door out of habit and pausing. She hears it faintly, the grunt of a workout and wants to both smile and shake her head.

At least he's predictable.

She takes the time to change into workout gear. She could go down naked, but that takes some of the fun out of it. Plus, sometimes they both need a really good fight before either of them can start mending the issue. She definitely doesn't want to do that naked.

Sure enough, she finds him downstairs, beating the crap out of one of the bags they've had installed. The basement is their own home gym to work of the personal things. Not that OSP is a bad place for it, but when it comes to them, the things they have to work out together, they much prefer knowing they don't have an audience.

She leans against the banister at the bottom of the stairs, watching him, the play of muscles under his shirt, the sweat across his back. His shirt is soaked, a testament to the emotions bottling up inside him. She knows he's aware of her. He told her once, in a rare show of absolute vulnerability, that the little hairs on his neck stand up when she's in the room. He always knows she's there. But still, she gives him another few moments.

"Deeks or Sam?" she speaks up finally.

His fists drop. "Either."

She nods, even though he doesn't turn to face her. "I won't stop you from hitting them both."

He turns then, watching her with eyes tinged with flint. He's pissed. She gets that. She's still pissed too. All she can offer him, however, is a shrug. And a sparring partner.

She moves to the mats first, he follows. He takes the first shot. She blocks easily. He's not trying just yet. She knows that. He never tries at first. He tests how much she's ready to do, how hard she's ready to fight. She rolls her eyes and doesn't disappoint. She takes the next swing. They trade easy, warm up blows, mostly because she's not warmed up yet.

Then they start fighting for real.

It's not the first time and it sure as hell won't be the last time they take this out on each other. At least as far as they're willing to go. It takes him twenty minutes to pin her, arm across her throat, but instead of putting pressure on her trachea, he leans down and seals his mouth to hers.

She gets this too.

Sweaty, chest heaving, he uses one hand to support himself while the other slides up and down her sweaty side. The exercise has made her hyper sensitive and her body arches without thought. Of course, maybe it's just Callen. Either way, as his hand cups her breast, her breath is already heaving and it's less about the exertion of the exercise and more about the way his hands play her body.

Or maybe it's play with her body.

Either way, she moans, putting a little more effort into it, letting him know that even if she shared a bed with Deeks for the duration of the mission, it's not Deeks she thought about. Callen is the one she wants, the one she wishes was there. He wastes no time with her sports bra and tosses it away, taking her in with a greedy gaze. He swoops in for her nipple without warning and Kensi lets out a groan that turns into a squeak when his teeth are rougher than she anticipated. He gentles, but only marginally and she moans in disappointment.

He lifts from her chest, looking more than a little animalistic, eyes blazing. It makes her clutch at his shoulders, arch into him because she wants it. She wants him. However he needs to take her. His groan reverberates against her skin as he dives into her again, mouth, complete with teeth, on her shoulder. He's going to leave a mark. She doesn't care. In fact, she revels in it, in that famous control she can make him lose.

He takes the breast he neglected, providing a strict counterpoint to his fingers teasing the other. Her hands scratch at his t-shirt, lifting it in the process. When she gets it high enough, when she can feel his stomach pressing against hers, she breathes out his name. He lifts his head and she tugs on his shirt. He growls, but yanks away from her long enough to send his shirt the same way as her bra.

Kensi wraps here legs around his waist when he comes back to her, arching to press the heat she knows he can feel against his groin. His head drops to her shoulder and she grins. He's closer to losing it than she'd thought.

"Stop playing," she whispers in his ear, lets her breath wash hotly over his ear. "Take me, G. Like you want to."

There's a split second, then he's yanking at her pants. She's worried for a minute, because he has the strength to rip them and she's so picky about her workout gear, but he lifts off here, encouraging her to arch her hips. Her hands push at his shorts, pushing them down his legs. Her eyes darken when she sees he's gone commando and she groans. Her panties follow and he positions himself above her.

He slides through her folds, not sliding into her, but against her. He hits her clit every time, not hard enough to do anything but tease.

"Callen," she groans.

"Mine," he says. Or tries, anyway. It comes out in a low growl that makes her shiver.

She hisses. "Yes. Yes, yes, yes."

He's sliding into her on her next breath and her eyes flutter closed as her body accommodates him. She's so wet that it's a stronger thrust than she's anticipating. She grunts with the impact of his pelvis against hers, but it makes his eyes glitter with new discovery. They've had passionate sex before, strong sex, but this is bordering rough and he's thrilled to discover she likes it. So he puts more force behind his next thrust and while her breath catches with the pressure, her eyelids flutter in pleasure. Her nails are digging into his shoulders on and off with his thrusts.

"Harder."

He's a little surprised by her demand, but it's an easy one to give into. He adds more force behind his thrust, watching her face as he feels her clench around him. She hikes her legs higher around his hips, digging her heels into his ass when he gets there. He speeds up the pace, slamming into her. She meets his thrusts with a tilt of her hips, using her legs as leverage. He can feel them rippling against his hips.

"Yes, G," she hisses into his ear. "So close."

He can feel it in the tensing of her muscles, the clenching of her hands against his shoulders. He manages to get one of his arms beneath her thigh, arching it towards her stomach. It changes the angle and she lets out a keening moan. He's not sure he's ever heard that sound before and it sends him so close to the edge he's reciting case statistics in his head. He pauses in his thrusts despite the push she gives him with her heels. He reaches up for her hands, pinning them beside her head and attaches his mouth to her neck.

It takes three rough thrusts to send her over.

He's seconds behind her.

She pants beneath him until he manages to get a hold of himself. She groans when he lifts off her and rolls. Goosebumps pop up all over her skin as she turns her head to look at him. "I wish it had been you," she says.

He looks over at her, eyes still glassy. She almost smiles.

"It was… a learning experience," she goes on quietly.

"Kens?"

She sighs. "I just…" She turns on her side to face him. "I think we could do it, Callen."

It takes him a mission to catch on. When he does, the breath leaves his lungs. He thinks they have a chance in suburbia. She thinks they could work, together, as a couple, living the oft-quoted 'American Dream'. "What?"

She rolls back until she's looking up at the ceiling. "I… I want it."

He almost misses it because she says it so quietly. "Kensi-"

"We don't know that we can't do it," she argues immediately, because she knows exactly where his mind is going. "I can do it. I know I can do it now."

"You were undercover."

"Exactly." That's exactly her point. If she could do it while under that much pressure, to do it for real would be a snap.

Her eyes are sparkling. She knows they are. Because she can see it. Her and Callen. Maybe not that high end of suburbia, but she can see a future. She can see them building a future. And for the first time, she wants them to build a future.

That future.

"Callen, we're not going to have NCIS forever," she whispers. She's still staring at the ceiling because she can't look at him. She doesn't want to look at him. She doesn't want his eyes telling her everything she knows he's thinking.

She knows it's not that he doesn't have faith in them. He lives with her. He loves her. There's nothing that tells her it's them he's worried about. She knows he's not questioning her either. She has the background of a fairly stable family, she's not as closed off as he is… She could do the family thing, even if the likelihood was remote until now.

He doubts himself. He's always doubted himself. He's not made for permanence. Not the permanence Kensi experienced in her time with Deeks. This is what he can do. This is all he can do.

"It can't be that you don't want it," she whispers. "It can't be that you haven't thought about it."

Dreamed about it maybe, but he knows he doesn't have to tell her that. They all think about getting out of the game, finding a way to make a real life instead of the pieces of the fake ones they live on their missions. But those fake ones… Well, they save the real ones, don't they? They do their jobs so others can live the American Dream she wants to talk about. The American Dream she wants.

The American Dream he can't give her.

"Kensi."

She sighs, and he realizes with a disgusting amount of surprise that she really does know him. Hot on its heels is the realization that he's open to her. He's an open book. There's nothing he can do or say that she can't predict.

"I know," she says, pushing herself up. "But it's always good to dream."

Even as she's walking away naked, he can't help but think that this one is going to come back to haunt him. This is the wake-up call they both needed, the moment they realize that this isn't going to work.

The worst part is, he knows it could. He knows it has.

And yet, he can't stop thinking he's gone and screwed up.

Irreparably.


	13. The Gift in Seeing

Sam and Callen sit in the boatshed, eating and watching their suspect sweat.

"Good cop, bad cop's old," Sam argues, as part of their newly revved debate on how to break the jittery man bouncing a leg in the other room. "And you always play the bad cop."

Callen swallows the bite of chili dog they'd picked up from a nearby vendor. "I'm always the good cop."

"You? Good cop?" Sam scoffs.

Callen grins, reaching for his ringing phone. There's a twinge of panic as he sees Deeks' name on the display. Deeks and Kensi have been on a different assignment and the only reason Deeks would be calling him is if something when wrong. He slams a lid on the rising anxiety.

"Tell me we don't have to come save your sorry ass."

There's a pause. Then, "We lost 12 people today."

Callen's quiet as Deeks recounts the entire situation, the entire case, the hostage situation, and the terrorist with a twitchy trigger finger.

"We didn't even get a chance to negotiate," Deeks laments. "Guy just up and…"

"Kensi?" He can't help the tension in his voice. They know, the team, so the tension, though not unnoticed, goes ignored.

"Safe," Deeks replies.

It's the lack of elaboration that really it does it for Callen. Safe means physically. Kensi's bad.

"Where did she go?" Callen asks, rubbing his fingers over his forehead, lunch forgotten.

"She's in the car. Place is crawling with agents and cops."

"Call Hetty," Callen orders. "Get her home and get to the boatshed." He hangs up.

"I hate Shaggy."

Callen doesn't even look over. "Twitchy trigger-finger terrorist."

Sam sets his sandwich down. "I'll make sure Eric e-mails the files."

It is the closest they are going to get. Kensi's in Callen's hands now.

It worries him, the kind of pressure that puts on him. He's not the right person to help a struggling Kensi Blye. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know where to start. Yet, he's still moving swiftly, climbing into his car and breaking more than a few traffic laws along the way.

Because it's Kensi.

And even if he doesn't know what to do, even if he doesn't know where to start, he knows he has to be there.

He finds her in his chair, dangling a beer bottle. He leans against the doorway.

"Tough day?"

She doesn't even look at him. Instead, she sips from the bottle. Her eyes are dark, staring out the window. She knows Deeks would have called. She knows why he's home so early in the afternoon when he should be working on a case of his own.

They're at an impasse for the moment. Kensi won't talk, but neither will he. He's given her the option to talk and she's not ready. Or won't. He's never quite sure which way it goes with her He goes back to the kitchen, grabs his own beer.

She's shifted when he returns, facing forward. Her beer's on the floor and she look so very vulnerable. He takes a pull from his own bottle and waits. Because he doesn't know what else to do.

Much ot his surprise, it pays off.

"We didn't even know," she says quietly, her head falling back against the chair. "G, we didn't even know."

He's not sure if he's supposed to say anything and placating words are generally not his thing. Silence in the face of a pain is really his naturally employed strategy.

"We didn't suspect him. Neither of us. We had our eyes on a different guy. Friend. Longer, shy. Perfect. He wasn't even supposed to be in that café."

And then it all made sense. She and Deeks had been royally, quite thoroughly duped.

It goes beyond just the death of innocents. It goes beyond whatever she's been battling these past couple of weeks. She's failed, epically. And she's not sure how to come back from that.

He moves towards her without thinking, managing to set his beer on the coffee table. He crouches in front of her, his hands coming to rest on her sock-clad feet. He's more than surprised to see the tears swimming in her eyes. Kensi doesn't cry.

"How did we not see it? How did we not know it was a set up?"

His hands slide up her legs, then back down to her ankles. Kensi's hands drop to his wrists and squeeze. The next thing he knows, she's shifted off the chair and into his lap. It's more than a shock, it's out of character. Instinct makes him wrap her up in his arms, makes her cling. He doesn't know what to do.

She does, and her lips press to his throat, open-mouthed and suggestive. He resists as her mouth moves across his throat, his jaw. Her mouth open over his, demanding entrance he gives without a second thought. She cups his face, drinking from him, drowning in him. He gives back, responding to every movement, every brush, with one of his own.

He let her have control.

She pushes back on him desperately, managing to topple him backwards. Kensi straddles his hips, pressing against him with wanton desperation. Callen grips her thighs, slides his hands upward in an attempt to enflame and gain leverage. He uses it to flip them, to bear down on her.

He can give her this.

She tries to fight, to regain dominance, but he counters each of her attacks, each of her attempts. He pins her eventually and uses his teeth down her neck, his tongue across her collarbones above her t-shirt. She gasps and arches, surprisingly quiet as he dances his mouth over her skin. She clenches at his head, his ears, his neck, whimpering when he pulls his mouth away. But his hands are already yanking her shirt over her head.

He tosses it aside and brings his mouth to her face. He can taste the salt on Kensi's cheeks, the tears and it checks the heat raging in his blood. He can't take. Not today. Not after the day she's had.

He has to give.

That, he can do. He's done it before, like this, with her. He can give to Kensi.

When he presses his mouth against hers it's gentle and exploratory. His tongue strokes hers slowly. His hands slow in their caresses of her skin. Instead of arching and moaning, she shivers with his reduced heat. She fights him, tries to turn the kiss hotter, turn his caresses more desperate. He pins her hands above her head in retaliation, leans up to trail his mouth from her wrists, down to the bend in her elbows.

"Callen," she whimpers.

He moves until his lips hover just over hers. "Kensi," he whispers. "Kensi."

His kiss is gentle, tender, beautiful in it's simplicity. She arched against him. He settled more fully on top of her.

"Let me," he says quietly against her cheek. "Kens, just let me…"

He gentles his hold on her hands experimentally. She doesn't move, but he's cautious when he releases her wrist. He's got a plan forming. He can give her this.

His mouth trails down her neck, down the strap of her beige work bra. He follows it over the soft lump of her breast. Her breath is spreading up as his mouth follows the edge of her bra. He keeps his mouth gentle, light, teasing. He knows she wants more, can feel it in the thrum of her pulse, the vibrations of her body. But quick and dirty won't help her.

His hands slide along her bra, her ribcage, following the cloth that wraps around her torso. She arches her back so he can get at her bra clasp. Moments later, her torso's naked and she wraps her arms around his neck. She gets bolder when he doesn't shrug her off, running her hands down his back until she reaches the hem of his t-shirt. He lets her – and yes 'let' is the right word – tug his shirt over his head.

He uses the advantage of surprise and the split-second she takes to toss the shirt aside to lean down and capture a breast in his mouth. He takes his time now, teasing with those maddening soft touches. Kensi can feel the swelling in her blood, can feel the emotions mixing swirling, crowding in, making it harder to breathe.

And he hasn't even really touched her yet.

But he's going to, oh is he going to. This isn't their usual style. Either of them. This slow, building, smoldering passion is rare, but beautiful. He focuses all of his intensity, all of his energy on her, on her pleasure. He makes her the centre of his world for however long they're together. It's a heady feeling.

It's what he's doing right now.

His mouth slides to her other breast and he shifts for better balance. Her hands hold his head to her chest as his fingers brush her hips, slip along the waistband of her jeans.

"Callen," she whispers. "Please. Touch me."

Her hands grip his hips, just above the line of his jeans. Her fingertips dig into his skin as his mouth blazes a wet trail down the centre of her stomach. He dips his tongue briefly into her bellybutton and makes her arch, a cry strangled in her throat. He doesn't linger though. He drags more wet kisses the short distance to the line of her panties. He's got her so wrapped up in this spell, his spell that she's missed him dealing with the fastenings of his jeans.

"Yes," she hisses, tilting her pelvis.

Callen's fingers slip under plain, simple cotton. She lifts and he pulls her pants and panties down. He takes her socks too, then trails gentle fingers up her legs. He twirls circles on her thighs, moving up and in at a maddening pace. When he gets to the top, however, the hot, wet glorious skin between her thighs, he's firm and knowing. He touches her with intent, with a goal and he pushes her higher and higher.

Her peak puts cracks in her. When she manages to get back enough oxygen to breathe, she's pleased to find he's stripped out of his pants and hovers over her, waiting.

Love me, Kensi thinks as she pulls him down on top of her. Callen doesn't hesitate, and Kensi wraps her leg around his hip as he slides inside. His pace is low, tempered, again, not her preferred choice, but that means nothing in the face of the feeling. Every warm, hard, glorious inch of him is pressed against her. The emotions haven't destroyed her, haven't broken her completely, but this slow pace is pushing it all back up her throat.

"Harder," she begs, and her voice breaks. "Faster."

He complies, though incrementally, but it's a consistent increase. His mouth moves to the skin of her neck, murmuring just under his breath, barely loud enough to hear over the pounding in her blood, the emotions screaming in her head. It's one of his languages, not hers, but she can't miss the intent, the beautiful, glorious emotion buried deep in the way his voice resonates against her skin.

"Callen!"

And this time, she shatters, breaks into pieces, the overwhelming emotions bleeding into her climax until she can't breathe. Her lungs spasm, somewhere between a real sob and one of ecstasy. He stays with her, buries his face in her neck. She wraps herself around him, clings to him in a way that's out of character. He doesn't try and push her away, that's not the way it works anymore, and lets her hold on.

"How do you know?" she says through the last of her tears. "How do you always know?"

He pushes his weight up and Kensi releases him without thought. He grips her hand when he's rolled aside. "Know what?"

"What I need."

"What?"

Kensi shakes her head, weaving their fingers together.

"No, Kensi. What do you mean? You're crying."

"Yeah," she says quietly, but how does she tell him that's the point? How does she explain that she feels safe enough to break with him, loved enough that she knows he won't see her as less. In fact, maybe he'll see her as more.

"Kensi."

When she turns to him he sees it, all of it, in her eyes, in her tears, in every line of her face. He's given her everything. He's given her a home, a place to fall.

Him.

Nomadic, emotional, oh-so-broken Agent G Callen. They've created something stronger than he's ever suspected, than he ever expected. They've built a world around each other, around them, and looking at her now, beautiful broken Kensi, he is humbled.

"Kensi."

She laughs then, a little breathless and more than a little watery. "Yeah."

This is It.

For both of them.

And now they can see how unbreakable they are, how strong they are.

Together.

Them.


End file.
